


Oh My God They Were Roommates AU

by MirrorElm



Series: Roommate AU [2]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Past Drug Addiction, Past Drug Use, Relapsing, Roommates, Shenanigans, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23374414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorElm/pseuds/MirrorElm
Summary: After Oh My God They Were Roommates.A series of one shots and some plot within an alternate modern AU where Tommy and Alfie end up in a shithole apartment together.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Roommate AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679203
Comments: 65
Kudos: 168





	1. Here to stay

**Author's Note:**

> This seems to me as a necessary fluff filled plot to explain their living situation and tie up some loose points from before. If you haven’t, you should read Oh My God They Were Roommates, otherwise this might not make much sense (this is a direct continuation). I’ll try to make the other one-shots more self-sufficient.  
> There is no upload schedule so these will come and go as inspiration strikes ^^'
> 
> Also, dom/sub smut (spanking) in this one ;).

The family meeting goes about as well as expected. Arthur and John are angry because they were kept in the dark for so long, both openly threatening to kill Mosley with Finn’s enthusiastic support. They’re shut down effectively by Polly, who herself scolds Tommy for not involving the family sooner.

She also makes sure to let him know that they stand by his side no matter what, assuring him that Mosley won’t be a problem. Michael doesn’t seem too confident in that. He’s glad Ada is there, like a pillar next to Tommy, supportive and unmoving.

The bruises never come up in conversation, but Tommy can’t help but notice curious eyes wander towards his neck every now and then. However, due to the methodically placed hickey, he can choose to associate them with Alfie’s affection rather than Mosley’s tight grip. For that, he is grateful to his boyfriend.

After the meeting is done, he returns home, a little buzzed from the whiskey he shared with his family, welcomed by a lounging sleepy baker.

“Hello sweetheart, how’d it go?” Alfie asks, stretching where he sits on the couch.

“Went fine,” Tommy slurs, “bed?”

Alfie doesn’t seem satisfied with that answer, but leaves it be. Maybe he’s tired or maybe he just notices Tommy’s swaying slightly from the alcohol. It doesn’t matter, they’re stripped and sleeping in his bed within the hour.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Most people think that Thomas Shelby is like a diamond, right? A cold, hard and expensive fucking beauty, able to enchant any pretty lady in sight and cut easily through the thickest metals. And Alfie would have thought that too, wouldn’t he? That is, if he hadn’t met that man on the one night when his cold, hard and expensive façade was as thin as fucking paper, and he got to take a look inside that well-guarded head of his.

See, what motivates Tommy, right, isn’t ambition or greed. Nah, he’s got those as part of his façade as well. What motivates him, is fear, mate. Thomas Shelby, part of the now illustrious Shelby Company, with his bewitching eyes and charming smile, is completely and utterly afraid.

Now the source of this fear, that itself is a mystery to Alfie. Can’t just be that fucker Mosley, no. He’s definitely an important boogieman, but Tommy’s fear runs deeper than one bad relationship. And Alfie, for one, would like to find its roots and tear it from the fucking ground, yeah. Show Tommy that he doesn’t have to be scared.

But to find those roots one must peer beyond the veil, beyond the shining diamond Tommy sells himself as. And that’s not easy, right, Tommy being the stubborn little fucker that he is. Good thing Alfie prides himself on his unwillingness to let anything go and that includes his injured little mountain lion. Because that’s what Tommy really is. A fucking mountain lion, because he is beautiful, strong, incredibly dangerous and upon that he is also hurt and afraid.

Alfie wakes up in his bed alone. _Again_. One would think that getting drunk would make one Tommy Shelby sleep at least until eight the next morning, but one would be fucking wrong, so it seems. At least his mountain lion has stopped making a fucking racket every morning as long as Alfie agrees to clean up after himself, gracious roommate that he is.

He sighs and heaves himself up, cracking his back before throwing on his sweats. His knuckles and split lip are better, but his ribs still scream at him when he bends over.

Alfie steps into the pristine kitchen to make himself _and Tommy_ , he pointedly thinks, breakfast. He has not, as his boyfriend might wish, forgotten about yesterday’s insufficient briefing on events that pertain to Tommy’s ex-fuckhead and he is not letting that go easily, no.

He grabs the kettle and spots Tommy by the window, smoking. Disgusting habit, but at least he’s polite about it, keeping it away from Alfie when he can.

“Morning sunshine,” he smiles to the already entirely too-proper-for-this-hour man at the window. The corners of Tommy’s lips turn up slightly, “you’re up early,” he retorts.

“It’s eight on a workday, love,” Alfie huffs, moving on to the toaster. Tommy mentioned something about hating strawberry jam, so he avoids that as he sets the table.

Tommy finishes his death stick and casually strides into the kitchen. Not a fucking chink in his armour, “you’re not working today,” he teases as he sits by the table.

Alfie smiles and settles on his chair after placing a plate in front of Tommy. Blue eyes stare dejectedly at the toast, then over at the baker.

“Just one piece,” Alfie bargains, because he is nothing if not a good fucking negotiator. It helps that Tommy is not the only one with big charming eyes, because after a couple of moments, the blue-eyed mountain lion relents, eating a piece of toast with some butter and honey on it. Alfie counts this as a personal fucking victory, especially after having heard from Ada that Tommy probably hasn’t eaten breakfast since he was 12.

Speaking of Tommy’s family, “So,” Alfie begins, “to return where we left off, before being so rudely interrupted by sleep: How was the meeting yesterday?”

“Already told you, Alfie,” the other man speaks while taking small sips from his tea, “it went fine.”

“Lovely summary,” the baker continues, “though as much as I am a fan of brevity,” Tommy smirks at that, “I would like to hear some details.”

His blue-eyed companion thinks for a moment, then sighs, “alright. They’re fine with the breakup, just wanted to be involved sooner. But it’s settled now. Polly will keep an eye out for suspicious activity and John and Arthur are helping me move out.”

Alfie nods. That last part brings up an interesting dilemma. Move out, but to where? Tommy has mentioned that this roommate situation is a temporary solution and it makes sense, what with his family now in the know and the fucking mountain of gold in his pocket. But now, well, Alfie quite likes having him around. Not exclusively due to how easily Tommy melts in his arms and how obedient and pliant he becomes, though those certainly are pleasant factors to take into account.

Alfie simply enjoys the other man’s company. He could move on from the subject, but he’s not Tommy, he doesn’t keep shit in. This baker right here knows it only rots you from the inside until its forced its way out. Nah, best to just ask, “where are they moving you, Tom?”

It’s an honest question with expertly hidden insecurity, innit? Alfie waits patiently, indifference written plainly across his face like the big fat fucking lie that it is.

“Well,” Tommy starts, “Polly was thinking it’s safest here for now. With you around. Oswald can find me anywhere I go and while he’s being dealt with, it’s best I stay with someone who can take him down,” he looks down at his tea, “but if you’d rather I move out, I can. I understand you might not feel safe.”

“Bollocks, mate,” Alfie? Not feel safe? Bollocks, mate, “I’m fine right here, yeah? And so are you.”

It’s only an extension of Tommy’s temporary stay here, but Alfie is fucking fine with that.

“Wait,” he suddenly realises, “with me around? That’s what your aunt said?”

Tommy nods innocently.

“Thought you didn’t want to tell them about this,” he gestures between them.

“I didn’t,” Tommy states, “but I did.”

And Tommy says Alfie is the crazy one, “right,” he mumbles, nodding, turning his attention back to his own tea, “so, what do you want to do on this lovely morning?”

Tommy flashes him a wicked grin before he straddles his thighs. Well if this isn’t a pleasant turn of events. God, if those needy blue eyes and parted soft lips don’t just make Alfie’s fucking mind blank. He barely hears the fucking knock. For fuck’s sake.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alfie’s all questions this morning, but Tommy supposes he deserves to be clued in on the basics. The baker doesn’t add much of his opinion on the whole situation, but at least he doesn’t seem to mind Tommy sticking around.

After last night, he had woken earlier than usual, choked awake in his dreams. Nightmares, really. But he doesn’t want to think about that now, he’s got more important things to attend to and when Alfie asks what he wants to do, he takes the opportunity to show his boyfriend exactly where his current interests lie. The other man seems more than okay with this development, but then there’s a knock.

Tommy freezes for a moment. Alfie groans against him, oblivious enough to not notice the panic rising in his partner. He’s able to get it under control before the baker notices. It’s not Mosley. Probably. Fuck. He can’t be a coward now, afraid every time there’s a knock on the door. This is ridiculous.

“I’ll get it,” he says and tries to stand, but two firm hands keep him seated in the baker’s lap.

“They’ll go away if we wait a bit,” Alfie pleads. Tommy laughs despite himself, gently prying himself from his boyfriend’s grasp. The baker gives up, leaning back against the wall with a huff.

The hallway seems longer than before and Tommy stills for a moment, then is prompted into movement by another set of impatient knocks. He grabs hold of the keys in the door, but he can’t bring himself to unlock it.

“Who is it?” he half shouts. He never usually does that and it makes him feel momentarily ashamed, but it’s safer this way.

“Chester Campbell,” a muffled irritated voice replies, “would you please let me in, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy’s panic leaves him and he exhales in relief, unlocking the door. Chester looks the same as he has the last time Tommy has seen him, except his face is set in a state of perpetual annoyance, without a trace of his previous friendly veneer.

He enters the apartment, “morning, Mr. Shelby,” his eyes land on the bruises on his neck. As he hobbles into the kitchen, Alfie greets him with a grunt, still shirtless. Tommy notes the disgust with which Campbell eyes Alfie’s bruises, but the other man pays him no mind, suddenly very interested in the remnants of his breakfast.

“Tea, Mr. Campbell?” Tommy offers.

“No thank you, Mr. Shelby,” he declines, and Tommy moves past him to sit at the table, this time he leaves some space between himself and Alfie, “I only came because I spent some time with Mrs. Crane one flat over. She mentioned hearing a ruckus from here, several times this week,” his eyes bore accusingly into Alfie, who stares back nonchalantly, “and some other noises, entirely unbecoming for innocent ears like hers.”

The first part is probably their altercation with Mosley. As for the second… well, Alfie does encourage Tommy not to hold back.

“What in God’s name has been going on here?” Campbell is angry, that much is clear. Maybe if they piss him off enough, he’ll get a heart attack and he won’t be an issue anymore?

“I assure you, sir,” Alfie begins, using a tone somewhere between friendly and threatening, “that there have been no unfit activities in this apartment. Tommy here has simply never seen movies I’d consider a classic, such as Memento or Fight Club, right? And I thought it would be my duty, the wonderful roommate that I am, to show him these wonderful films,” it’s a blatant fucking lie and Chester knows it, “the volume might have gotten away from us, indeed, and for that we apologise. Won’t happen again. Alright?”

Alfie stares right into Chester’s eyes, daring him to challenge his shitty fucking excuse. Tommy would find him intimidating, if he wasn’t so fucking hot right now. Bare chest covered in tattoos and bruises combined with that unflinching gaze. He needs to look away to keep his composure, otherwise Chester might notice.

Or he might not, since he seems to be busy staring back in a bad attempt to meet the other man’s intimidation. Eventually, he gives in, offering both sitting men a curt nod, “make sure that it doesn’t,” before exiting the apartment.

“What a fucking cunt, can you believe-,”

Alfie doesn’t have time to really finish his thought before Tommy is on him again, straddling him, needy as he kisses him passionately. The baker pulls him away for a moment, “hmm, something particular you liked there, love?”

“You,” Tommy breathes, attempting to close the distance between them, but Alfie’s hands hold him still, “when you’re like that. Dangerous.”

“Hmm, attracted to danger, sweetheart?” Alfie purrs, “seems fitting. Then you’ll love this,” he pushes Tommy to his feet and Tommy is ready, “wait here, love,” Alfie commands and the other man only nods. The baker disappears into his room and comes back with… his laptop?

“No filming,” Tommy says immediately, suddenly fearful of what the other man wants to do. Alfie laughs, “nah, mate, nothing like that. We’re watching Memento,” he moves past Tommy without a fucking care in the world, then settles laying on the couch with the laptop on the coffee table, right arm lifted invitingly.

“Fucking what?” Tommy is still breathless with arousal, but he’s confused.

“I remembered you told me you haven’t fucking seen it,” Alfie simply states, “it’s really fucking good, mate. Come on, right here,” he gestures again.

“Really? Now?” Tommy is a little annoyed with this development, pointing at his interest currently tenting his pants.

“Well,” Alfie seems to consider this, “I can’t with good conscience fuck anyone who hasn’t seen this movie, right? So if you really don’t want to see it, yeah, we don’t have to watch it. But then I’d have forego your pretty little arse and that would really be a fucking shame, mhm.”

That fucking bastard.

“Come here, Tommy,” Alfie commands. So it’s part of the discipline, huh? _Fun_ punishment? He did say he liked being a fucking tease. Fuck, this man will be the death of him, Tommy thinks, but he joins him on the couch regardless.

The movie begins and they’re pressed close, laying on their side, Alfie spooning Tommy. It doesn’t take long for the baker’s hands to begin wandering and about five minutes in, Tommy feels the other man’s erection pressed against his back.

“Focus Tommy,” Alfie chides. It’s a challenge, then. Alfie set him up to fail so he can punish him. They’ve talked about this. Tommy agreed to play along as long as Alfie agreed to stop if prompted to. No safe words, Tommy doesn’t trust them. They never worked out anyways, at least not with Mosley. _No means no_ is the current motto, and Tommy keeps this in mind as he feels the press of his boyfriend’s palm over his trousers. Fuck he’s hard.

But he isn’t going to fall into the trap. He’s stubborn and he won’t fail. The firm erection in his back disappears as Alfie puts a little distance between them on the couch. He places a hand on Tommy’s ass. At first it does nothing, just sits there, unmoving, making Tommy squirm with anticipation.

“Something wrong, love?” Alfie teases, “the movie is quite intense, I know.”

Bastard. Tommy hums in affirmation. He is in no state to speak coherently right now. The hand squeezes lightly and he has to suppress a moan. This isn’t going to be easy.

It moves down, middle finger tracing the crease of Tommy’s arse and Alfie moves closer behind his head, braced on his other hand, looking down. Tommy can’t keep his eyes on the movie anymore, letting out a startled gasp when the finger moves in to brush at his hole.

“Fuck,” he curls in on himself a little, but he is turned onto his back, hands moved away from where they were hiding his face.

“Tommy,” Alfie tuts with mock severity, “your attention seems to lie utterly elsewhere, mate,” Tommy’s cheeks burn as Alfie hovers over him, looking him over with hunger in his eyes, “I guess I’ll have to teach you to pay attention, yeah,” his hands stroke lightly over the fabric covering Tommy’s body and the laying man feels his skin prickle, “up on your feet and off with all of this. Now.”

Tommy does as he’s told while Alfie patiently turns off the movie and sets the laptop away, making no move to undress himself. Once Tommy is naked, untouched and hard, he stands in front of Alfie. The baker takes his time, settling himself neatly on the couch, gesturing Tommy to his side, guiding him on his lap so he’s laying across, hard cock clasped between Alfie’s sweatpants-clad thighs, bare arse up and exposed. He knows what’s coming next and he feels bubbling excitement when Alfie strokes a gentle hand over his cheeks.

“Now, you’ve made it about, fifteen minutes in, is that right?” Alfie seems thoughtful.

“Seventeen,” Tommy corrects with a croaked voice. He’s leaning on his forearms and this whole situation is entirely too humiliating, but he loves it.

“Oh, you’ll regret that, mate,” Alfie adds in a low voice, “seventeen it is, then.”

Before Tommy can process what that means, Alfie slaps his right cheek. The hit takes away his breath, but it also makes him move slightly, the friction causing a spike of pleasure in his groin. It’s immediately followed by another slap, exactly where the first one had been, producing the same effect.

“I need you to count them, Tommy,” Alfie says, “so we’ll see when it’s seventeen, yeah?”

Tommy nods, trembling lightly.

“Tommy?” Alfie prods.

“Two,” he manages, cheeks burning hot and fuck he needs more.

“Good boy,” is what he hears right before Alife lands another blow on the same spot, eliciting a sound from Tommy that it indeed unbecoming for innocent ears. When they work their way up to five, Alfie switches cheeks. It’s unthinkable, how much Tommy is enjoying this, and the friction from when he’s hit only makes it harder not to come.

When they’re done, Tommy’s arse is burning pleasantly and the sensation goes right to his dick. He is sat up and cradled in Alfie’s arms.

“You’re just lovely, you know that?” Alfie praises, stroking Tommy’s cheek, reaching down. Tommy’s leaking with pre-cum when he feels the warm hand wrap around him, “it’s alright, sweetheart, you can come,” and that’s all it takes for Tommy to fuck into Alfie’s fist. He’s a groaning mess within seconds and he comes almost immediately, collapsing boneless into his boyfriend’s arms.

“Fucking hell you’re beautiful,” the baker seems breathless himself, as he kisses the naked man, “and wonderful at counting, might I add,” he coos, “could listen to you count to a hundred, really, I could.”

They’re close like that for a little longer, then Alfie carries him to the bathroom and helps him clean up, because Tommy can’t really stand right now. After that, the baker dresses him in one of his bigger shirts and they meld together under two blankets, Alfie turning the computer back on.

“We could still watch the movie,” he offers, voice soft, “or you could just take a nap.”

Tommy is pressed close to his chest, half awake, “what about you?” he mumbles.

“We’ve got plenty of day left,” he answers fondly, “I’ll get mine.”

Tommy nods, “put the movie on, I don’t need a nap.”

Alfie chuckles and presses start, stroking Tommy’s hair. He takes note of when the other man inevitably drifts off in his arms, about half an hour in.


	2. Cyril

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfie wants a dog and Tommy doesn't. Or does he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, sweet and extremely fluffy.

It’s his second week back at work when Tommy is finally able to sneak out of his office, away from all that paperwork and into the stables. Due to his position in the company, it’s not required of him to work with the horses, but that’s the only part he really enjoys.

They’ve received a particularly difficult stallion while he was on vacation and he wants to see if he can do something about that. On his way, his phone rings. It’s Alfie.

“Tommy, love?” the other man’s voice sounds sweet, too sweet. He wants something.

“Yes, Alfie?”

“I’m going to be late today, a co-worker is taking me to a dog shelter,” Alfie innocently states.

“Alfie,” his tone is stern. There will be no sudden onslaught of dogs in their small shithole of an apartment.

“As a volunteer, Tommy,” the baker corrects quickly. Tommy doesn’t think he’s lying, but he knows how much the other man adores dogs.

“Alfie,” he cautions.

“What?” Alfie’s voice rings in mock offence.

“You have absolutely no impulse control when it comes to dogs,” and it’s true. Tommy is surprised there wasn’t already a pack of dogs in the apartment when he moved in.

“That is both hurtful and untrue, mate,” the man over the phone states, “I just want to help out because they’re short staffed today. No adoptions from me, mate. I promise.”

Tommy sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, “alright, then. Have fun,” this isn’t going to end well.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Woah, woah there boy,” Tommy tries to calm the jittery horse. His voice is low and steady and he approaches the young stallion with learned caution. They’re at it for a while, but eventually Tommy manages to gain the horse’s trust, stroking its mane when they’re done with training for the day, “just needed someone patient, didn’t you?” he speaks gently.

On his way back to the office, his phone buzzes. It’s a picture of a grinning Alfie with a bull mastiff in his lap, seemingly asleep. The text is captioned _Cyril_. Tommy smiles but doesn’t reply, trotting past his secretary Lizzie. He’s almost through the door when she stops him, “you’ve missed quite a few calls. Here’s a list,” and hands him some numbers and names.

When he is done with that, about an hour later, he rests his head on his desk. He’s got some more work to do. Seems like Alfie won’t be the only one late today.

Speaking of Alfie, his phone rings again.

“Tommy,” the baker’s voice is sickly sweet again.

“Yes?”

“Did you get the picture?”

“I did,” Tommy states nonchalantly, fully aware of where this is going.

“He’s lovely, ain’t he?” there’s panting in the background, most likely Cyril.

“Alfie, no,” they can’t adopt a fucking dog. It’s a tiny apartment and dogs are messy as fuck.

“But he’s got no home! He’s a big fat sweetheart, right, and people are stupid and scared of big breeds like him. I’ve heard a little girl call him ugly, mate, fucking ugly. It really hurt his feelings,” Alfie seems to have gotten attached pretty quickly. Who could have known? Tommy. Tommy knew.

“Alfie, there’s no room for a fucking dog,” he tries to sound stern.

“There’s plenty of room,” obvious reply.

“Does Chester even allow pets?”

“I don’t care. He’s got no fucking say in this.”

“Fair enough. But I do?”

Alfie hesitates, “yeah, of course you do.”

“Then I say no,” it’s a little mean, but Tommy is tired and really not in the mood for this conversation.

“… alright,” is all he gets in reply before the other man hangs up.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’ve been at the shelter again today,” it’s not a question. Tommy eyes the fur Alife seems to be intent on spreading everywhere the same way he spreads the fucking flour. His boyfriend has been volunteering at the shelter twice a week for a month now, spending hours after work taking care of abandoned animals.

Tommy was afraid Alfie would pester him about Cyril, but he hasn’t mentioned the dog since the first time he asked to adopt him. Didn’t even get mad or pout when Tommy came home that evening. It’s… surprising. And weird. Unexpected? It leaves Tommy with conflicted feelings about the whole thing.

“Yeah, well,” Alfie makes a half-hearted attempt to clear off some hair from the couch for Tommy join him, “those animals need some fucking care, don’t they? And I’m a caring man.”

No hard feelings, no pestering, no sad looks. Why does Tommy feel that fucking pang in his chest, then?

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s sitting in a café with Ada, roughly one week later. They’re catching up, talking about nothing in particular, when he gets another text. This time it’s a picture of a cat halfway up Alfie’s leg. The caption reads _apparently I’m a jungle Jim for cats now._ Tommy smiles, but there’s that feeling again. That tightness in his chest he can’t exactly place. It seems to show on his face, because Ada immediately narrows her eyes.

“Trouble in paradise?” she asks.

“No,” he’s quick to retort, “it’s been great. It’s just…” he doesn’t even understand it himself.

Ada patiently waits while Tommy tries to figure himself out.

“I don’t really know,” he says, honest, “Alfie wanted a dog. I said no.”

“And he got upset,” she interjects, “you had a bad fight.”

“No, we didn’t,” Tommy corrects her, “that’s the problem, I think. He just… moved on,” it’s all very confusing, “he really wanted the dog, I said no, he said alright and that was that. No real argument, no shouting. He doesn’t seem to hold it against me. He’s just as loving as before.”

“Then what’s the issue?” she seems just as confused as Tommy now.

“That’s it,” he seems unsure, “I don’t really know. I just feel wrong.”

She huffs out a chuckle, “maybe it’s _regret_?”

Tommy looks at her incredulous. What would he have to regret? The dog? No, Tommy doesn’t even like dogs. Okay, that’s not true. He likes dogs. But it was impulsive, Alfie’s decision to adopt one at the time and he needed time to think about it. Maybe he should have said that instead of flat out saying no, but then again, he didn’t expect Alfie to drop the subject that easily. And now that he has had some time to think, his opinion really isn’t any different… right?

“Is it a cute dog?” she asks smiling. He shows her a picture, “oh, he’s adorable. He’ll fit right in with you guys.”

He shoots her a weak glare, “we’re not getting him, Ada.”

She smirks, “of course not.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hello, I’m here to see Cyril,” Tommy is standing by the counter, a white and clean surface, behind which is a desk with a young and tired looking woman. She perks up at his words a little, “you’ve seen our ads?”

“No,” he answers truthfully, “I’ve been told about him.”

She eyes him suspiciously, but shows him the way to Cyril’s kennel regardless. The big slobbering mess only stirs lightly when they approach, looking up at Tommy somewhat excitedly when he moves within sniffing range.

“He’s a real sweet thing, this one,” the woman pets Cyril, who is focused on Tommy’s extended hand, still not in the mood to stand up, “a little lazy, so you’d have to monitor his exercise and feeding, but he’s gentle, aren’t you, you big baby?” she coos to the dog.

Tommy scratches behind his ear. He admits, it is a cute dog. Fucking hell this will be a nightmare when it comes to cleaning. And he doesn’t have to even imagine the smell, it’s right in front of him. And the slobber. He sighs, “I’d like to take him, if I may.”

They set up the adoption paperwork, but she keeps giving him odd glances. When he’s finally had enough, he asks, “is there a problem, miss?”

“No, no, nothing,” she stammers, a little embarrassed, “it’s just. I thought someone else would take him home,” she shrugs, “but his evil boyfriend hates dogs or something.”

Tommy clears his throat, “actually, his evil boyfriend changed his mind,” she turns bright red under his stare, “don’t tell him. I want it to be a surprise.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cyril is ready to be taken home within the week. Tommy reads up on bull mastiffs and buys bedding, toys and other necessities, ready to take the beast home. Cyril is calm in the car ride, but he leaves marks on the back seats Tommy might never be able to clean. Maybe he should just get a new car?

They’re at the front door when Tommy kneels down next to the dog, “alright,” he points with his finger, “you are free to roam the kitchen and living room. Bedrooms are out of bounds,” Cyril seems to listen intently, “we will take you on walks and you will not tug on the line. Also, no pissing and shitting inside and no fucking barking,” black eyes stare at him and he pets the dog before he releases him into the apartment.

Alfie seems to be asleep on the couch, which gives Cyril the perfect opportunity to run up to him and lick his face. Tommy cringes a little in disgust.

At first, the baker is confused as he shoots up from where he was laying. It does not take him long to recognise the excited ball of fur at his side and he slides down on the floor to eagerly greet his old mate.

“Cyril! You fat bastard, what are you doing here?” he says as the dog settles neatly in his lap. It looks like a lot like a grown man trying to sit on a kindergarten chair.

“He’s got a home now,” Tommy speaks from where he is leaning against the wall. Alfie’s head snaps up at him, eyes brimming with emotion.

“Come here, Tommy,” the baker heaves Cyril off of himself and stands.

“You’re not kissing me until you’ve washed your face. Twice,” Tommy warns as he takes a step back and puts his arm out toward the approaching man.

“You’re amazing, Tommy,” Alfie ignores him and pulls him into a tight hug, placing pecks across his neck and face.

“If he shits inside, it’s yours to clean,” Tommy barely tries to wriggle himself free, then shifts to press himself close as Alfie kisses him deeply. When they part, a little breathless, he notices the dog already asleep on the fucking couch.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” he groans, but seeing the smile on his boyfriend’s face, he knows that he won’t.


	3. Blindfold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Alfie try something in bed, but the result is a surfacing of emotions some (tommy) would have preferred buried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst and fluff in this one with the best boyfriend in the world Alfie :)

“Fuck, Alfie, no. Stop, please, I can’t,” Tommy croaks. He’s trembling all over and completely terrified. Tommy tried to be good and endure, but he’s been taken over by panic and if he doesn’t get his breathing under control, he’s going to pass out.

The blindfold is immediately taken off and Tommy is enveloped in a warm and secure embrace.

“Okay, love, it’s okay,” Alfie soothes, holding the shivering man close while he’s wrapping them both in a blanket, “you did good, yeah? Just breathe.”

Tommy lets himself be held and focuses on his breathing. Deep breath in. Hold. He’s still shaking. Fucking hell. How the hell did that happen? Everything was fine. Alfie asked Tommy if he trusted him, and he fucking does, so why was it so hard to breathe once the blindfold was on?

Alfie is not fucking Mosley. Tommy should have fucking got over himself. He should have been stronger, it would have been good, eventually. The touches weren’t any different, he just didn’t see the hands. Didn’t know what would happen. But the hands are the same even if he doesn’t see them. They’re not Mosley’s. The grip around Tommy tightens and he remembers to breathe again.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Shh, Tommy,” Alfie kisses his forehead, “you did nothing wrong. It’s okay, I’m not mad, okay?” he smiles down at the other man fondly, but there’s slight concern in his face, “let’s get you a nice relaxing bath, hm? Sound good, love?”

Tommy nods weakly and is carried into the bathroom. Alfie sits him on the edge of the bathtub, wrapped in the blanket and moves to fill the tub with warm water. Tommy clings to his right arm, so he has to work one-handed, but he doesn’t complain. Alfie tugs Tommy’s hand under the stream of water, “good?” he asks. He receives another nod and proceeds to add scented soap.

When the bath is sufficiently full and lemon scented, Alfie ushers a slightly calmer Tommy into it. The warm water seems to drain the nervous energy from him and Tommy leans his head back, one arm still holding onto Alfie’s. The other man sits on the edge of the tub. He makes no move to get up or leave, just sits there, stroking Tommy’s palm.

“Thank you,” Tommy rasps after a while, feeling a bit like himself again.

“Stop thanking me for being a decent fucking boyfriend, mate,” Alfie comments.

“You can’t fucking stop me,” he smiles and Alfie chuckles in response. They’re quiet for a while.

“No blindfolds, then?” Alfie asks gently.

“I need to…” Tommy struggles to explain himself, “I need to see it’s you,” he hopes it makes sense.

The baker nods, taking Tommy’s hand to his lips and kissing it. He looks thoughtful.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy adds.

“Stop fucking apologising,” Alfie chides, “you were right to fucking stop me, yeah? It’s no fun if you’re not fucking enjoying yourself,” he strokes the other man’s hair, “besides, it was a bit of a daft idea. I mean, look at those pearly blues. I could look at those forever,” the hand moves to caress Tommy’s cheek. He smiles and leans into Alfie’s touch, “what fucking fool would ever want to hide them?”

They end up on the couch, watching another one of Alife’s “classics”, Cyril at the foot of the bed along them. The baker deemed Tommy _not fucking fit for any sexual activities immediately after a fucking mental breakdown_ and ordered a movie long break before they try anything again and Tommy is fine with that.

After a while, he becomes restless in Alfie’s embrace. He can’t seem to focus on the movie. It’s weird, the fear is back, like a faint buzzing under his skin. It should be fine now, right? It was fine in the bath, the panic went away. But it’s slowly creeping its way back.

“You alright, love?” Alfie asks the squirming figure at his side. Tommy sits up, “I need a smoke.”

He stands and goes into his room, returning with a pack to smoke by the window. Alfie has turned off the movie and is now petting Cyril while he’s watching Tommy puff smoke into the outside air.

“Tommy-,”

“I’m fine,” Tommy stops him pre-emptively.

“Your arm is trembling, mate,” Alfie comments.

Is it? He looks down. Indeed, it is. How long has that been going on? Alfie stands and stretches a little, stepping closer and putting a careful hand on the small of Tommy’s back, “alright, Tommy, talk to me.”

“I don’t know,” he really doesn’t. He’s safe. He trusts Alfie. He shouldn’t feel like this. But he does. And that scares him even more. Fuck.

“Alright,” Alfie moves closer, still, until Tommy rests his head on his shoulder, “we’ll figure this out, yeah? When’s the last time you’ve eaten? Too long ago, I bet. Let’s get some food in you.”

The baker moves away into the kitchen and Tommy finishes his cigarette. When he does, he turns his head to the curious dog at his feet. Cyril seems to have picked up on the shift in mood and has set himself closer to Tommy, staring up at him. He pets the dog, “I’m alright, Cyril,” why is he lying to a fucking dog?

“Here,” Alfie offers him a sandwich, which the other man hesitantly accepts. Tommy picks at it by the window. The baker sits back down on the couch. When he’s done with the food, about half of it gone, he sets it down on the coffee table and Alfie saves it from Cyril’s greedy mouth, eating the rest himself.

Tommy is pacing now, it helps a little, “I don’t know why, Alfie, something is off.”

Alife’s eyes follow Tommy like a hawk, “we won’t figure out what’s wrong while you’re still like this,” he tries to sound calm, “let’s just get you back to normal and then we can dig deeper.”

“That’s not solving anything,” Tommy protests. His breathing is getting quicker. He knows panic well. It’s an old friend at this point. But it was never without reason, never this strong without anything real behind it. It never came back like this once it went away. Deep breath in. He’s dealt with fear before. Hold. He can do this again. Deep breath out.

But maybe this was it. Maybe he’s finally broken. After years of abuse from his father, his mother’s suicide, the drug addiction and the relationship with Mosley, it’s no fucking wonder. It feels like the fear is settling in to stay. All he can ever do now is get rid of it with temporary distractions. Maybe once he’s run out of those he’ll end up like his mother, dead in a canal.

“Oi,” Alfie’s strong voice penetrates through his thoughts, “let’s get you into a better headspace first,” he motions for Tommy to join him on the couch. He swallows and sits down, Cyril planting himself at his side. Petting the dog seems to help a bit.

“So movies didn’t help,” Alfie ponders, “baths help, but not for long,” he scoots closer placing an arm around Tommy’s waist to help ground him, “how about a walk?”

Tommy shakes his head.

“No? Think maybe reading would help?” Alfie offers again.

“How’s that different from a movie?” Tommy counters and his boyfriend seems surprised, “Tommy, my boy, movies and books are entirely different media, right, and I will not have you equate them just like that,” he sighs, “but we will shelve that discussion for now,” he takes a moment, “what do you usually do when you need to clear your head?”

“I go riding.”

“Of course you do,” Alfie scoffs, “nothing fucking plebeian about your way of dealing with things, is it?”

That earns him a sharp look but he only presses a light kiss on Tommy’s cheek before going on, “when’s the last time you’ve been riding?”

“A couple months,” he answers honestly, “I have a black stallion where we train the horses. He doesn’t race, but I ride him sometimes.”

“Yeah, you would have your own fucking black stallion,” at least Alfie seems to find some amusement in this situation, “and can we get to that black stallion right now? As much as I’d rather stay at home, I doubt Cyril can carry your weight, right, even if there isn’t much of it, mate, and he doesn’t really have the proper training. I assume horses need some fucking training to be ridden, right?”

Tommy actually huffs a laugh at that and nods. He can always get to Azra if he likes.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was like peeling back old bandages off of an infected fucking wound, mate. And Alfie had done it completely unintentionally, hadn’t he? Thought he might have some cheeky times with Tommy and a blindfold, make him wonder a little at what would happen, right? Have some fun with it, make the other man quiver with anticipation, yeah.

Fucking shite idea that turned out to be when Tommy started trembling and begging like that. So fucking afraid. Alfie never wants to see him like that again.

He thought it was done and well, after the bath. But fuck no it wasn’t, apparently, because that one stupid thing, the fucking blindfold, had managed to bring to the surface the bubbling anxiety Tommy had stored deep inside him for years, probably. Alfie is under-fucking-qualified to deal with this, to say the least, but he is trying.

He’s leaning against a fence facing a wide green field. Tommy had offered other horses for Alfie, so he could join, but he refused. No fucking way he’s stepping near those jumpy fucking creatures. They make him nervous. Interestingly enough, they seem to instantly calm Tommy. He seemed almost entirely at ease in the stables, petting his black horse and Alfie almost fucking felt jealous, yeah.

Tommy appears from beyond the horizon, galloping on his horse. He looks pretty damn good riding a horse and gives Alfie potentially inappropriate ideas regarding riding crops. Hm, nah, they’re entirely appropriate with the way Tommy has responded to spanking. Which was a pleasant surprise, right?

The horse stops to a halt in front of Alfie and the baker instinctively backs away when it approaches.

“He won’t bite, Alfie,” Tommy smiles. He’s a little out of breath, but he seems calm.

“You don’t fucking know that,” Alfie keeps his respectful distance.

“Actually, I do,” the riding man offers, “I’ve looked through your glasses this morning.”

Alfie huffs a laugh at that, “so you’re alright, then?”

Tommy nods, “let’s get a drink in my office, eh?”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The building is relatively empty and the baker can get a good look at his surroundings while he’s ushered into Tommy’s office. All dark wood panelling and classical paintings of horses and their owners. Tommy leaves Alfie to inspect the intricate details of his workplace as he gets them some tea from the kitchen.

When he comes back, Alfie is settled comfortably on Tommy’s chair, leaning back with his arms folded across his stomach. He’d fit right in if it weren’t for the black sweatpants and grey hoodie.

“That’s _my_ chair,” Tommy comments as he sets down the tea on the table. He goes to stand in front of Alfie, who pulls him onto his lap.

“And now you’re sitting on it,” the baker smiles up at him, “sort of.”

Tommy leans down and kisses him, slow and deep. When they part, he leans his head on Alfie’s shoulder, settling comfortably in his lap.

“It’s a very nice office you got here, Thomas,” Alfie speaks, “a bit grim, but I take it that’s your thing, right?”

“I hate it,” Tommy answers, “keeps me away from the horses.”

“Hm,” the baker is stroking through Tommy’s hair now. He seems to like doing that a lot, “more like a golden cage, innit? You can even see the fields through the windows, yeah.”

Tommy hums in agreement. They sit like that for a while and it almost feels like he could drift off.

Alfie’s hand stills in his hair and the baker speaks, “Tommy,” he sounds apprehensive, “have you ever spoken to a professional? About, well, you know…”

“I’ve seen a psychiatrist when I was in rehab,” he mutters into Alfie’s hoodie, “not since I was 18.”

“You think maybe you should see one now?” it’s a suggestion more than a question, that much Tommy can tell. It makes something defiant flare up in him. His time in rehab wasn’t exactly pleasant, and though he believes the doctors tried their best, he ended up resenting them.

“So they can drug me up and keep me docile?” he spits.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Alfie retorts, speaking gently into Tommy’s hair, “but it seems to me, yeah, in my humble opinion, that you’ve got some issues, mate,” the baker holds Tommy tighter when the man squirms, a firm presence when he speaks, “we all do, Tommy, right? There’s no fucking shame in that,” he places a peck on Tommy’s temple, “and as much as I’m prepared to be here for you, yeah, when you need me, and believe me I fucking am, I think it might be good for you to find some professional help.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Then that’s alright, too,” the baker answers fondly, “just a suggestion, love.”

Tommy looks Alfie in the eyes, “alright.”

Alfie is right. He should see someone. It’s an unpleasant thought, but he can do this. There’s no way he can expect his boyfriend od his family to shoulder all of his issues, and he obviously can’t deal with them on his own. It’s a bitter realisation, but a necessary one.

“I’m not taking any pills,” he says after a while and Alfie offers nod and another kiss.

They stay in the office until it begins to get dark, then return home and eat dinner. Tommy doesn’t feel the panic rise up again that evening and they’re able to even finish the movie this time, before Alfie drags Tommy to bed and fucks him senseless, muttering something about how fucking graceful he looks on a horse.


	4. Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short fun dialogue.  
> Alfie gets Tommy a present.

“Alife.”

“Yes, love?”

“What’s this?”

“It appears to be a box.”

“With a ribbon.”

“A present, then.”

“And who’s it for?”

“Hm, better read the tag.”

“Fuck you. It says ‘Tommy’.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“Indeed it is not.”

“And there’s no anniversary for months.”

“Mhm.”

“What’s it for then?”

“Well it says ‘Tommy’, I’d say it’s for you.”

“Alfie-,”

“Just open it.”

“It’s-,”

“You like it?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever use it on a horse?”

“Not since I was a child. We don’t use riding crops anymore.”

“Good thing it’s not for the horse, then.”

“Want to try it?”

“Now?”

“If you don’t feel like it-,”

“You know I fucking feel like it. Come here.”

“Make me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consistency in formatting? What is that?


	5. Suit and Tie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy wants to take Alfie to a charity event with a formal dress code, which means Alfie needs a suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and a pinch, a tiny one, of angst, but mostly fluff.

“This is humiliating, mate,” Alfie mutters as he glares at the old and slightly frightened tailor. He’s standing on one of those pedestals while the older man hesitantly takes his measurements, growling anytime he’s accidentally touched.

“Alfie, stop scaring the tailor,” Tommy admonishes, standing by the fabric display, “you agreed to this.”

“No, I did fucking not,” the baker protests, “I agreed to go to that charity thing, not a fucking fondling session by an old-,”

“Alfie,” Tommy interrupts before his boyfriend insults the scared man attempting to measure his waist any more, “the event has a formal dress code.”

“And I have a suit,” Alfie comments. The tailor writes down some numbers and means to say something, but Tommy is quicker, “that _suit_ is too old and too small.”

When Tommy asked Alfie if he had anything to wear, he was thankfully sceptical enough of the other man’s _of fucking course I do_ to demand evidence. The suit in question was all black, well it used to be, and the fabric stretched uncomfortably across the baker’s chest. It seems to have been worn only once before, and if Tommy were to guess by the way the pant legs barely reached Alfie’s ankles, it was somewhere in the baker’s teens. Alfie was in desperate need of a new suit if he were indeed to accompany Tommy to May’s charity evening.

“Sir, if I may,” the tailor quietly interjects. Tommy nods, allowing him to speak, “do you know what fabric you wish me to use for the suit?

“Yes, we’ll take the charcoal black mohair with silk lining inside and a white cotton shirt,” Tommy answers and Alfie huffs.

“Of course, any thoughts on the colour of the lining?” the tailor leads Tommy to their large selection of silk fabrics and Alfie follows along. It’s an odd sight to anyone observing, two high end men with impeccable suits and a scruffy baker in his comfy adidas get up, the latter glaring anyone near him into oblivion.

“Any preferences?” Tommy turns to Alfie.

“Oh, I get a say in this?” Alfie mocks. He receives Tommy’s signature icy glare and sighs, “I don’t know. I like red, yeah. Could do that.”

“Would that be scarlet, ruby, hot red? Perhaps burgundy?” the tailor offers.

Alfie turns his glaring gaze at the man, “what, mate?”

Tommy sighs, pointing at the row of reds, “one, two, three or four?”

“Two,” Alfie answers.

“Ruby it is,” Tommy says. He knows fully well Alfie could have just read the labels, but he’s apparently in a mood and intends to make this experience as tedious as possible. Next thing they pick are the buttons, which Tommy does himself and then a tie that fits with the lining of the jacket.

“You can come in for a fitting on Monday, sir,” the tailor says directly to Tommy, finally realising it best not to address the big angry bearded man actually getting the suit.

After they’ve left the place, Alfie’s mood doesn’t seem to brighten much. He pouts as they’re walking back home and Tommy is trying to convince himself that he’s too annoyed to care.

“Alright, what is it?” he gives up and looks at Alfie.

The baker grumbles, “it’s gonna be an expensive suit, mate.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered,” Tommy says, “you know that.”

“Well I don’t want you to,” Alfie huffs.

“What? Why not?”

“It’s for me,” Alfie begins, “the suit, right? I should be fucking buying my own suits. But I can’t fucking afford that.”

“For fucks sake it’s just a suit,” Tommy argues, “it’s not a fucking car or a house. You can fucking let me buy you one suit.”

Alfie crosses his arms, “I don’t like wearing suits.”

“I’ve noticed,” Tommy mumbles. He takes note of the uncomfortable shift in Alfie and lets it go, grabbing on to the other man’s arm. The baker allows his arms to fall at his side and they walk back in silence, holding hands.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Alfie, get up,” Tommy commands. It’s Monday morning, neither of them are working today and they’ve got an appointment at the tailor’s in two hours. Tommy has been awake for a while and he wants today to go better, so he even made breakfast and some coffee to entice his hesitant boyfriend out of bed. The baker pulls the duvet over his head.

“I made breakfast and coffee,” Tommy offers softly as he sits next to the heap on the bed. Alfie was fine the days after their first appointment, though he seems fussy again today. Tommy would pass it off as one of Alfie’s stubborn fits, but this seems different and so he tries to be nicer about it. He places a hand where he assumes Alfie’s shoulder would be. The baker peeks out from below the covers.

“I didn’t know you touched food willingly,” he jokes with a raspy voice. Tommy smiles and leans in to place a kiss on the other man’s temple.

“My back feels shite today, mate,” Alfie mumbles, “should probably cancel that thing we had.”

Yeah fucking right, “Alfie,” Tommy chides, “you’re not a fucking child trying to get out of a dentist appointment. Stop lying.”

Alfie grunts and gets out of bed reluctantly. They eat breakfast and already the baker’s mood is pretty shit. He still manages to properly thank Tommy for the breakfast with a rather passionate kiss. Tommy, however, is smarter than to let his libido get the better of him, and pulls away from Alfie, “we have to get ready and leave.”

“What’s the hurry?” Alfie tries, but Tommy isn’t stupid. A firm hand stops the baker when he tries to continue and he sighs against Tommy’s chest.

“What is the fucking deal with you and suits?” Tommy asks.

“I don’t like them,” the baker grumbles.

“We got to that part,” Tommy agrees, “why?”

Alfie pushes himself away and starts pacing, “they’re uncomfortable, expensive as fuck,” he gestures dramatically, “and they remind me of death.”

“Death?” Tommy seems confused, but it doesn’t take him long to connect the dots. Alfie mentioned before that his mother died in his teens. The one suit he owns must have been bought for her funeral. Did he go to a tailor for that? Either way, this is probably bringing back a lot of bad memories.

Tommy walks over to Alfie and hugs him tightly, “you don’t have to come with me. We’ll cancel the appointment.”

Alfie hugs back, “nah, I want to come. I do. I’m being an idiot, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Alfie,” Tommy pulls back to look the other man in the eyes. He’s not used to seeing the baker this unsure, “I get it. You don’t have to come. It’ll be horrid to deal with anyways.”

“No fucking way you’re going without me, then,” Alfie protests, smiling a little, “not when I can provide meaningful and quality entertainment, yeah.”

“And the suit?” Tommy asks.

Alfie grumbles, “I can’t promise I won’t be a cunt about it but I’ll try to be nice. Can’t say I look forward to that geezer’s fucking skeletal hands on me, mate.”

Tommy chuckles and then ushers Alfie into the bedroom to get ready.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The suit is finished just in time and Alfie looks… astounding. Tommy had dragged him to a barber to get a haircut and trim for his facial hair and combined with the suit the baker looks powerful, commanding and unbelievably hot. It stirs all kinds of emotions in Tommy as they get ready for the evening and the flush to his cheek does not go unnoticed by his boyfriend.

“Tommy, sweetheart,” the baker speaks in his deep voice, “tie this for me,” he commands, gesturing at the tie hung loosely around his neck. Tommy breathes a stifled _fuck_ and does as he’s told, meticulously tying the dark red silk around Alfie’s neck as the other man stares at him with lidded eyes.

“Hm,” Alfie offers when he’s done, “you’re a fan of the suit, love?”

Tommy nods. Fuck, now is not the time, they have to get ready and leave. Thankfully, Alfie doesn’t seem intent on pursuing Tommy’s interest at the moment and finishes dressing.

Once Tommy himself is ready, they’re about to set off before he notices, “wait, you don’t have any cufflinks.”

“Do I need them?” Alfie asks and Tommy huffs, disappearing momentarily into his room and returning with a small black box.

“These’ll fit nicely,” he says as he takes out a pair of silver and dark red marble-like cufflinks, “they’re my grandfather’s,” he mentions as he puts them on Alfie’s sleeves. He’d never worn them himself, but they seem to fit the baker’s suit so perfectly. Alfie smiles and places a peck on Tommy’s cheek, “thank you, love.”

Moments later, they’re off.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So what you’re telling me, mate, is that the marble was not white enough, right?” Alfie is trying to make sense of this old lady’s ramblings, he really fucking is, but she’s just babbling about fucking nothing. Alfie always thought he was the best at stringing long speeches about nothing in particular, but he may have met his match tonight.

Whatsherface is off again and he’s not sure she’s even speaking about the fucking marble anymore and he so desperately wishes he were a drinker at this point, so he could fucking down an entire fucking bottle of something expensive and strong, right, just to deal with this fucking shit. He squirms a little in that expensive fucking suit.

He’s been nervous about it all day, right, but it’s not as bad as he’d feared. Tommy’s reaction to the suit certainly helped, yeah, and the cufflinks were a pleasant surprise. He feels like he shouldn’t read into that too much, but it felt meaningful, right? They looked important to Tommy. Speaking of the devil, where the fuck is Tommy?

It’s been at least thirty minutes since he’s been called away by a young and frankly scary beauty named May and left Alfie alone in this hellhole of rich people and their fucking marble. A bunch of wealthy cunts sucking the life out of the only proletariat in this fucking place.

“Laura, your husband’s been desperately looking for you,” a female voice at his side says to the old woman blasting on.

“Doesn’t sound like him at all,” the old hag laughs, but then excuses herself nevertheless. Alfie looks to his right at his saviour. It’s another woman, not young, but not old either. Her clothes are the same as the other’s, a long white dress and some fur along with it, but she seems different. There’s a wickedness to her eyes.

She extends her gloved hand, “Polly Gray.”

Alfie nods, shaking her hand. The fucking aunt. Fucking shit. He’s not prepared for this at fucking all.

“Alfie Solomons,” he replies. He can do this. He is Alfie fucking Solomons indeed and he is not scared of aunts.

“I know,” she smiles back, “you look almost proper enough to fit in.”

Alfie’s not sure whether that’s a compliment or not, “well don’t get used to it, mate. This is a rare fucking treat, right?” he gestures at himself.

She huffs a laugh, “you are way too fun for our Tommy.”

“Yeah, well,” he says nonchalantly, “he’s a special sort, your Tommy.”

“Mhm,” she nods, “he’s rich, for one,” her eyes drop to the suit, “I see you’re already enjoying the benefits.”

“Oi,” Alfie protests, “I, _for fucking one,_ ” he mocks her, “do not fucking care about his money or this surprisingly comfortable fucking suit, right? Now I would love to expound on the many details which make me so attracted to _your_ Tommy, besides his wicked blue eyes and sharp wit, right,” he pauses, “but I doubt your delicate fucking ears could handle it.”

She smiles wider, pulling a cigarette out of her clutch. Of course she smokes too. Must be fucking genetic.

“Believe me, sweetheart,” she says as he gestures him to follow her to the balcony, “my ears are anything but delicate.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

May had pulled Tommy aside to discuss a training regime for one of their studs. She promised it would only take a minute, but they ended up rewriting the whole thing and when he looked at the time, they’d been gone for almost an hour. Fuck. Alfie is going to be pissed.

He returns to the main room, but Alfie is nowhere to be found. He searches some of the smaller rooms before he hears his baker’s tell-tale high-pitched giggle from one of the balconies. Tommy spots his boyfriend leaning on the fence engaged in what seems to be pleasant conversation with… Polly?

It’s… unexpected. And it makes Tommy’s heard swell a little. He approaches the pair cautiously with an apologetic expression aimed at Alfie.

“There he is!” Alfie exclaims happily and pulls Tommy to his side, left hand firmly planted around his waist as if to prevent him from disappearing again.

“Productive evening?” Polly asks whimsically.

“It was, yeah,” Tommy nods, “May and I laid out a plan for Ursa. He should be fit to race next season.”

The other two both chuckle and Polly adds, “told you he was working. Anyways, you two have fun, I’ll be off.”

She gives Tommy a reassuring squeeze and then she’s gone. He feels relieved at her reaction to Alfie, seems like he passed a test. And after that fiasco with Arthur, Tommy really just wants his boyfriend and his family to get along.

“Sorry,” he says as he leans on the fence next to Alfie, their shoulders touching, both facing the trimmed front yard.

“It’s alright,” Alfie huddles closer to Tommy, arm around his waist again, “had your aunt come to the rescue, thankfully.”

“How are you dealing?”

“The suit? I’m good,” Alfie nods, “it’s different. But it’s okay,” he shifts closer, “though I recommend we leave now and put it to better use, mate,” he purrs into Tommy’s ear and it goes straight to his cock.

Tommy’s eyes go dark, “I’ll have to think about that.”

They leave the party ten minutes later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about suits, but I do know Tom Hardy looks hella good in them.


	6. Riding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy takes Alfie riding and there's trouble afoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello.  
> I't been a while.  
> Might be a while again.  
> But here it is.  
> Something :D

“Fucking shit, fuck, fuck,” Alfie curses silently, stiff as a board on the back of an old ashen mare. Tommy huffs a laugh from below, standing next to the horse, stroking her neck soothingly.

“You’ll be fine,” he offers. It’s a miracle they even got this far. It took about two months to even coax the baker into considering riding a horse and once he felt ready for it, like it were some monumental feat, there was a whole argument about why tracksuits aren’t suitable for horse riding.

Eventually Tommy is able to drag an appropriately dressed Alfie to the stables to meet Muffin, a mild-mannered old mare. She’s sweet and patient, one of Tommy’s own, not a racing horse, and absolutely perfect for the apprehensive bearded man.

After some acclimation through mane brushing and constant assurance that the being in front of them is in fact not a bloodthirsty beast, Tommy shows Alfie how to saddle the horse. They lead her out onto a big grassy field where Alfie is able to mount her with some help.

“Elbows loose,” Tommy taps his boyfriend’s forearm, “heels down, back straight, not hollow and don’t pinch your knees together.”

“I’ll fall off,” Alfie protests, but proceeds to follow his boyfriend’s instructions dutifully.

“You won’t,” is the simple answer, “hold the reins at all times, or you’ll confuse her. Heels down.”

Alfie shifts uncomfortably on the horse, straightening his back again, gripping the reins tighter, afraid to move.

“Relax, Alfie,” Tommy strokes soothingly on his forearm, “you need to hold the reins, but there’s no need for a death grip. Use both heels to say “go”. Pull right on the rein and press your right leg into the horse to move right, same for the left. Gentle movements will do.”

With that, Tommy steps away and Alfie takes a deep breath.

“This is a fucking nightmare, Tommy,” the baker curses and uses his heels lightly to prod the horse into motion. Muffin seems to register the clumsy attempt and proceeds to move forward at a snail’s pace.

“Fuck, Tommy, this isn’t good,” the baker panics, immediately stiffening on the horse’s back.

“You’re doing great, Alfie, relax a little,” Tommy encourages, “and heels down.”

“Nah, mate, get me the fuck off,” Alfie protests, trying not to yell so he doesn’t spook the horse, “now, Tommy.”

“Alright, alright,” Tommy chuckles, “gently pull back on the reins lightly until she stops, eh?”

Alfie does as instructed and Muffin halts her slow movements, which helps the baker breathe easier. Tommy walks up to the pair and pets the horse before helping his terrified boyfriend dismount. Maybe next time they’ll get further. Baby steps.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They’re in Tommy’s office now and Lizzie’s brings them tea. She eyes the sitting bearded baker suspiciously, but doesn’t say anything. Tommy thanks her and she leaves with a nod.

“That scared of horses, eh?” Tommy asks, leaning on the desk in front of the sitting baker.

“Nah, mate,” Alfie lies, “let’s get one thing straight, yeah,” he gestures meaningfully, “I’m not fucking scared of anything, right?” he pauses, “I’m just not fond of cracking my head open on the floor. They’re jittery creatures, horses, aren’t they? Entirely fucking unpredictable, yeah. Don’t trust them.”

“Muffin wasn’t the jittery one today,” Tommy teases, taking a sip from his cup.

Alfie frowns. Tommy smiles fondly and sits himself on his boyfriend’s lap, arms loosely on the baker’s shoulders, touching their foreheads, “I think you did great today.”

Alfie grunts, “I fucking freaked, didn’t I?”

“But you didn’t spook the horse and fall off,” Tommy offers, placing a peck on Alfie’s lips.

“That’s a bit of a low bar, mate,” the baker sulks, but still pulls Tommy closer for a kiss, this time deep and slow. When they pull apart, Tommy breathes, “still, you did good. Deserves a reward, doesn’t it?”

That elicits a toothy grin from the baker, “hmm, you’re right,” Alfie’s hands wander over to Tommy’s arse, “you know, I’ve noticed _you_ haven’t ridden anything today yet.”

“We can rectify that easily.”

There’s a knock on the door. Alfie groans as he feels Tommy lift himself up and straighten himself out before turning to the door, “come in.” He’s gotten better as of late, the knocks still startle him somewhat, but at least they don’t elicit panic anymore. Maybe the therapist he’s begun seeing helps.

Lizzie enters with a polite smile, “you’ve got a call waiting.”

“He’s fucking busy,” Alfie offers with a pointed look. The woman at the door seems unimpressed, “it’s Polly. I told her you’ve got company, but apparently it’s important. She answered, and I quote, _get him on the fucking phone right now. And tell him there will be no more fucking on company grounds._ ”

The baker lets out a disappointed sigh when Tommy nods and moves to his phone to answer Polly. Why the fuck these people still use stationery phones is beyond him. Alfie is ushered out of the chair and instructed to go on a walk while Tommy sorts this out. He leaves the offices annoyed and decides to go on a stroll around the premises.

Tommy doesn’t want to send him away, but if it’s business, he’s going to need some privacy.

“Hello Polly,” he says into the phone as he settles himself behind his workspace, hearing a signature exhale of smoke on the other side.

“We’ve got a problem,” Polly’s voice is calm and unbothered, but there’s an edge to her words, “it’s one of the racetracks we use for training. Apparently there’s a “safety issue”. The distance between the running rail and the crowd barrier is 198,7 centimetres where they measured it today.”

“And?”

“And,” she answers sardonically, “that is just below the minimum requirement of 2 meters.”

“That’s a fucking joke,” Tommy huffs, “what do they want?”

“Apparently nothing,” she sighs, “but we know that’s a load of bullshit. I dug around. The inspector is a friend of the Mosley’s, Tommy.”

Embarrassment creeps its way up Tommy’s neck. It’s been months since he moved out of their shared apartment and so far Mosley has kept away. Didn’t even retaliate against Alfie. They all thought he might have moved on and Tommy had gotten lucky. Apparently not.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he stays silent. After a few moments, he hears another drag of the cigarette and yearns for one himself, but he’s quitting.

“I’ll handle it, Tommy,” she says, “just thought you should know. He might try something. Stay on your toes and keep that big man of yours close. He’s with you now, right?”

“He’s around.”

“Good,” she pauses, “how have you been, Tommy?”

“Fine,” he rubs the bridge of his nose. It’s not a lie, but it’s never been easy to open up to Polly. Not because she’s not understanding, but because it’s just never easy. With anyone. Except Alfie, it seems, “I’m okay, Polly. What does Michael say about this?”

“He’s young and naïve,” she answers dryly, “thinks it best you soothe Mosley’s ego and apologise. Says the easiest solution is to deal with him directly.”

Her words are followed by a hollow chuckle, but Tommy doesn’t laugh. As much as he hates to admit it, Michael might be right. Mosley isn’t going to stop after one “safety issue”. There will be more to deal with. He guesses Polly intends to deal with the issues as they crop up, but the simplest solution would be to speak with Mosley and stop the issues at their source.

“Tommy,” he’s pulled from his thoughts by the stern tone of Polly’s voice, “don’t even think about it.”

“I have to go now,” is all he says before he hangs up.

Could he deal with Mosley? It’s been so nice lately and Tommy has been so happy. It should be an easy choice to just continue undeterred on _this path of healing_ , as his therapist put it, and let Polly do whatever she needs to do. She’s capable and smart. She’d be able to handle this and Tommy could stay happy. But he can’t let her. It’s his mess.

Michael is right.

His heart is beating faster now, he needs to calm himself down and think. Tommy stands up and leaves his office. Once Tommy’s walked half the premises he thinks to search for his baker. To his surprise, he finds Alfie, Mr. _horses, yeah, are giant fucking creatures with very few redeeming qualities, right_ , in the fucking stables, brushing Muffin’s mane, muttering something to himself.

Tommy tries to move closer without drawing attention himself, but much like a horse, Alfie is easily startled and well aware of his surroundings.

“She’s admittedly the least dumb horse I’ve come across,” he turns to Tommy, putting the brush away, “still not a fan of the fucking smell, though, let’s get the fuck out.”

Tommy chuckles and lets himself be led out of the stables, holding onto Alfie’s arm. It’s eerie how after a while, Alfie’s mere presence is enough to calm him. He walks closer than usual but the baker doesn’t comment. They stroll the grounds a bit when Tommy breaks the silence, “Mosley’s causing trouble for the company.”

Alfie grunts in affirmation, “big fucking surprise.”

“Polly says she’ll deal with it,” Tommy continues.

“I bet she will,” Alfie adds. He glances at Tommy, “so that’s settled then, right? You don’t have to worry about that fucking bastard anymore, sweetheart.”

Tommy can’t meet his gaze. He looks the other way and focuses on the line of trees in the distance. Seems like the Lee’s are close if the smoke is anything to go by. Good people, always watchful eyes for their kin.

“Tommy,” Alfie interrupts his thoughts, “you here?”

“I’m here,” Tommy looks back. No point in lying to his boyfriend, he’ll find out eventually, “I have to talk to him.”

“Who?”

Tommy clears his throat, “Mosley. I have to apologise. Make amends.”

“Fuck no,” Alfie stops dead in his tracks, eyes boring into Tommy.

“It won’t stop unless I do.”

“So fucking what,” they’re facing each other now and Alfie lets go of Tommy to cross his arms and stare intently.

“So fucking what, eh?” Tommy repeats to himself mumbling, then mirrors Alfie in his stance and returns his stare, “you might not care if other people have to clean up after your fucking mess but I do, hm? Mosley is my fuck up and mine only and I have to deal with him,” he takes a deep breath, “besides it’s the simplest solution.”

Alfie is hurt by those words, that much is clear in his eyes, but Tommy doesn’t back down. Alfie mocks, “simplest solution? So if I got this fucking right, you grovelling to Mosley, the man who fucking abused you, hm, over the fucking phone for what’s probably going to be hours, which is sure to do fucking wonders for your mental health, is the simplest fucking solution, yeah?”

“It’ll have to be in person, he won’t accept apologies over the phone,” Tommy adds nonchalantly and Alfie just stares back, stunned into silence. This time it’s harder to look him in the eyes.

“Tommy, no,” the anger is gone and the tone isn’t commanding, but pleading, “don’t fucking put yourself in that position again.”

Tommy says nothing and looks away towards the trees, but Alfie doesn’t seem keen on being ignored and steps in front of the smaller man, his gentle hands tugging Tommy’s crossed arms apart as he leans closer, pressing their foreheads together, “I don’t want to see you like that again, Tommy,” the hands pull him closer until they’re hugging and Tommy buries his nose in the baker’s neck and he hugs back, “please, don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”

Tommy pulls away from the embrace and begins walking back to his office, “but I do, Alfie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh I have nothing else written atm and only an idea of where this is going but you'll just have to trust that I get my lazy ass to write on :P


	7. Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy wants his family safe from his own past, but everything has it's cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes I do still exist.  
> This one was hard to write, hope you enjoy it anyways :P

It’s been difficult, to say the least. After his conversation with Alfie on the field, Tommy shut himself in his office and buried himself in work. Work, which now included a plan to apologise to Mosley. Alfie left his offices without saying goodbye and when Tommy came home late that evening, he found a pillow on the table and a note that read _for your room_.

It had been months since he last slept in his own room, not that there was much sleeping in for him that night either way, but being thrown out of what had essentially become _their_ bedroom, it hurt. Tommy tossed and turned, hoping for exhaustion to give him at least a couple hours, hating how much he missed Alfie’s warmth at his back and the tickle of his beard at the nape of his neck. Tommy left the apartment for work before the other man woke.

That was a week ago, Tommy thinks to himself as he shuffles around a few papers. He expected Alfie to be angry and upset, but the way he’s been acting is… odd. Granted, Alfie has never been an easy man to predict, but this feels like more than just an argument. The baker has been avoiding Tommy like the plague and even when they are together he is distant. Alfie almost seems like he’s grieving a loss. An overreaction, if you were to ask Tommy, but Alfie was never really one for measured responses. It’ll pass. Probably. Hopefully.

Tommy’s back hurts as he tries to straighten himself and focus on the paper in front of him, but his mind wanders back to Alfie, a new thought nagging at him. They _also_ haven’t been intimate since that day at the field, which hasn’t done any wonders for either of their moods. On the bright side, they don’t see each other much so there really isn’t ample opportunity to snap at one another. Small mercies.

He leans back in his chair, abandoning the piece of paper on his desk. It’s almost five anyways, he should be heading home. For a moment, his heart clenches. Dark thoughts speak to him from the back of his mind. Maybe Alfie is distancing himself because he wants to break it off? Maybe he just doesn’t know how to end it? Maybe he’s sick of him and is just too nice to say anything. Maybe he just doesn’t care to. Tommy closes his eyes.

No. He cares, that much is clear by the food Alfie still cooks for him every day, the way he tentatively asks how he’d slept and that one time he even invited Tommy on a walk with Cyril on Friday. The walk was spent in silence, all stolen glances and sad eyes, both men with words at the tip of their tongue, unable to push through their lips. But Alfie cares. Tommy shakes his head and runs a hand over his face before getting up and heading home. The business with Mosley will be done soon enough and then they can go back to normal. It’s what he chooses to believe as he exits his office.

When he arrives home, he is greeted by the familiar sound of Alfie cooking. Cyril trots into the hall to greet Tommy, as he does, and Tommy gives him a gentle scratch before taking off his jacket and shoes.

“I’m home,” he calls out and receives a monotone grunt in response. He pads into the kitchen after washing his hands and leans against the wall, facing the cooking man. Alfie is determined to ignore Tommy’s presence as he strains the pasta. He’s wearing all casual clothing, as usual, a tight T-shirt and loose sweatpants.

The pants hang precariously around his waist, exposing some of his black boxers and the shirt cuts into his biceps. It’s been too long since those strong arms had held him. Tommy yearns for their touch. His hand reaches out, almost of its own volition, fingers grazing Alfie’s forearm questioningly as the other man sets down the pasta.

Alfie stops and considers Tommy’s hand for a moment. The lukewarm façade he’s been holding for a week crumbles as he steps over and hugs Tommy tightly. He buries his face deep into the baker’s neck, shutting his eyes to hold back the tears. They stay like that for a while, until Tommy can hear Alfie’s grumble, voice more gruff than usual, “food’s getting cold.”

The smaller man nods as he is let go, sniffing slightly. They sit down to eat. It seems more amicable than the last couple of dinners even without idle chatter. There’s so much Tommy wants to say, but in the end, there’s only one thing that matters right now. He takes a determined breath.

“There’s another charity event soon,” better to get it over with quick, “I’m going to do it there.”

There’s no need for explanations, it seems, as Alfie’s face immediately sinks after that statement, but Tommy goes on, “it’s public enough so that he can’t really try anything and it’ll be easy for us to slip into a room for the privacy of grovelling.”

Tommy hopes the playful delivery helps set Alfie at ease, but the other man seems anything but that. He continues, “Polly will be there, as will Arthur and John. They all know my intentions and will be looking out for me.”

Alfie sets down the fork, seemingly done with his food and crosses his arms, staring very intensely at a spot on the wall. When he doesn’t say anything for a while, Tommy offers, “I’d like it if you were there.”

That earns him a reaction. Alfie huffs a humourless laugh, eyes finally able to meet Tommy’s, “you havin’ a laugh, mate?”

“Alfie-,”

“Don’t fucking _Alfie_ me with that soft fucking voice of yours, yeah?” he’s angry now, but his voice remains dangerously steady, “you’re out there, putting yourself in harms way, right, intentionally _and_ unnecessary, might I add. At the mouth of a dirty disgusting shark, hm? And you want me, right, to not only _let_ you do this _again_ ,” he pauses, “you want me to be fucking there, right, so I can have front row seats to watch the man I love get fucking hurt again.”

Tommy startles at that.

“The man you love?” he repeats quietly.

Alfie looks away, standing up with a huff, moving to the living room, leaving Tommy alone in the kitchen. Tommy sits there for a moment, heart leaping in his chest. He doesn’t idle for long though, soon he follows his baker into the living room, seeing the man settled on the couch with a book, determined, again, to ignore Tommy.

On another day, he might let Alfie stew, but not today. Not after that. Tommy goes to nestle himself at his side. Alfie doesn’t push him away, but he doesn’t pull him in either. Still, Tommy shuffles closer, pressing himself against the other man’s chest, closing his eyes. He’s missed this. He’s missed Alfie. He’s honest when he says: “I love you too, you know.”

There’s a shift beneath him and Tommy can feel Alfie’s hand carding through his hair. After several minutes, Alfie sighs, resigned, “I won’t try and stop you. It’s useless,” he places a soft peck on his head, “and being angry at you is… not easy, so I’ll let it go. But I… I can’t be there.”

“That’s alright,” Tommy murmurs, already sinking into the best sleep he’s had in a week.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” Alfie speaks softly.

“Promise.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tommy straightens his tie for what feels like the tenth time before he exits the bathroom and wanders into the living room, looking for Alfie. The only one there is Cyril, who doesn’t even bother to lift his head in acknowledgement of Tommy’s presence. Tommy is just about to shout after Alfie when he hears him.

“You look good.”

“Thank you,” Tommy says as he turns around. He still feels a pleasant buzz on his skin hearing Alfie’s compliments. He’s about to express some insecurities about his choice of shirt and tie combination when he is rendered speechless. Alfie is wearing his suit. It takes a moment for the dots to connect in his head.

“You’re-,”

“Can’t well leave you to fend for your fucking self, can I?” Alfie interjects, fidgeting with the cufflinks Tommy gave him, “yeah, you’ve got that wicked aunt and all, but she might be busy with those brothers of yours, Beavis and Buttface.”

Tommy chuckles. Alfie’s presence at the event takes away a lot of his nervous energy and he breathes easier, “it’s Butthead.”

Alfie steps closer, hands gripping Tommy’s waist beneath his jacket, “I think Arthur is more of a Buttface, but if you insist,” he rests his forehead on Tommy’s, expression sombre again, “I don’t like this, but I’m here for you.”

“Thank you,” Tommy gives him a chaste kiss, “it means a lot.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“It’s not going to stop, Tommy,” Mosley is close now, too close, speaking with such disdain it makes Tommy’s skin prickle uncomfortably, “as long as I fucking live, I am going to make your life and your mongrel pack of a family’s life a fucking nightmare.”

It had gone as terribly as one could expect. Mosley was in a shit mood when he arrived and spotting Tommy’s new boyfriend not so subtly glaring daggers at him from a corner didn’t do much to improve it. Tommy was, however, determined to end this tonight and that’s how they ended up here. A small room, possibly a study, with ornate furniture and clutter all around. Stacks of books, some papers and letters littered on the desk, the gold coating on the office supplies glinting in the low light of the two shining lamps.

Mosley suggested this room. When Tommy began his apology, he laughed. He’s not laughing now. Soothing this man’s ego was one failed attempt after another, until all politeness was stripped away and there was nothing but blank hatred behind those dead eyes staring at Tommy.

Oswald knows he can’t touch Tommy, knows there’s an army of Shelby’s and a crazy boyfriend just outside. He’s so fucking close, but he doesn’t dare. Doesn’t matter, he can terrorise Tommy with his words just fine, it seems.

“You will have nothing when I’m done with you,” he takes a breath, “I’ll start with your company, then I’ll deal with that sister of yours. Boston, right?”

Tommy can’t breathe. It’s like those hands are wound around him again. He’s leaning on the desk now, Oswald stepping away, continuing his speech, “it’ll surprise you how easily one can get expelled from a university.”

The words blur into a distant hum. It doesn’t matter what he says. It’s over. Tommy’s family is fucked, and it’s his fault. But he tried to make it right. Maybe if he fell on the floor and begged? No, there was no way Mosley was going to stop. That much he has made clear.

Tommy has to protect his family, but his words don’t work and he can’t breathe.

He has only one option now.

As if by its own volition, the letter opener rips its way through the expensive fabric of Mosley’s shirt and is embedded deep in his chest. Mosley makes a guttural noise in surprise and stumbles back, knocking over a chair as he falls to the ground, grabbing on to the weapon in his body.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Tommy whispers as he sees the cogs turn in Mosley’s head, but the man on the floor doesn’t listen and rips out the letter opener, sealing his fate with another half-choked cry as he attempts to stand. Blood is visible on his shirt and the stain grows bigger as he falls back down. He looks Tommy in the eyes. For the first time since they’ve known each other, there’s fear in Mosley’s eyes and they both know. He’s going to die.

Then the door opens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering how we got here, hey, same.  
> The plot sort of got away from me :P Will try to update within this mont, but no promises :P


	8. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie worries. Tommy floats away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this one is out sooner than expected :P   
> Guess who's got an exam to study for? *nervous chuckle*  
> Hope you enjoy!   
> Starts with Alfie's perspective.

Alfie fucking hates apologies. He hates every fucker who’s ever bumped into him and then said _sorry_. He hates his dumb boss’s apologies when he gets denied another fucking raise, even though the bakery would quite literally crumble without him, wouldn’t it, because Alfie Solomons is an _exemplary_ employee, yeah, who takes _initiative_. Most of all, though, he hates the mere fucking idea of Tommy apologising to that abusive cunt with his cow licked hair and his ugly fascist mug.

He’s standing with Tommy’s aunt, having what can be considered pleasant conversation, something about the perils of smoking or whatever. He watches her pull out her first cigarette this evening. She huffs away, blowing the smoke towards the window, not really listening. That’s okay, he’s not really sure what he’s fucking saying, either.

Their minds, and eyes, are on Tommy. Silly fucking boy. Anger simmers beneath their skin. Seems Alfie isn’t the only sensible one opposed to this whole apology thing. Stupid fucking concept. Whoever was the first one to admit fault should have been fucking shot.

He sees the tension in Polly’s shoulders and the shift in her gaze before he notices Mosley walk in. The man’s put together, all his fucking teeth still intact, sadly, with one tiny scar on his chin from when Alfie had bashed his disgusting face in. The posh prick picks up on Alfie’s presence immediately and his frown seems to deepen. Alfie doesn’t know if that’s a good sign or not.

Tommy is elegant, as always, in his approach. He doesn’t speak to Mosley right away, but gives him some time to settle. A real fucking beauty, he is, gliding among the tacky rich folk like some fucking prince. He’s all smiles and pleasant words to the average onlooker, who is of course an idiot, because it’s clear as fucking day, right, that the pleasant words are fucking empty and the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s nervous.

Alfie wants to go to him, give him another fucking chance to back out, but Tommy seems to sense something amiss, or he’s just lost his fucking patience, because he disappears down the hall and to the left, trailing behind a very irritated and greasy Mosley. Alfie hates how small Tommy makes himself as they walk.

The pair disappears into a quiet room and within moments, Alfie stands by the handle, surrounded by the Shelby clan. He wants to immediately stop all of this, because fuck, this is a bad idea and every protective instinct in him screams for him to open that fucking door, but a firm hand on his forearm stops him. He turns to see Polly, gaze even and unreadable, “he’ll call if he needs us.”

Reluctantly, Alfie shows a great amount of self-restraint, an immense amount of self-restraint, a fucking mountain load of self-fucking-restraint, indeed, as he backs away from the door, a thick door at that, probably somewhat soundproof too. He leans on the wall opposite. Arthur and John are to his left, eyeing him suspiciously, as if he were the one who’s a fucking danger here. They really are Beavis and Buttface.

Polly stays by the door, obviously waiting for some sign of trouble and the brothers are pacing. A while passes by and Alfie wants to send the Shelby men away before he strangles them for making him so fucking nervous. Like fucking rabbits they are, jittery and twitchy and fucking annoying, but he doesn’t get to say a word before they hear a crash from behind the door. Polly’s eyes are on his. Trouble.

Alfie opens the door immediately, ready to wrangle Mosley off of Tommy and this time maybe do some more damage to that slick lizard face of his, but once inside the room, he goes still.

The first thing he sees is blood. Alfie had never seen so much fucking blood before. It’s sprouting like a fucking sprinkler system from somewhere on the floor where a writhing Mosley lies. The second thing he sees is Tommy.

He’s shaking and his breathing is ragged and way too fucking fast. Alfie is on him within seconds. Polly is kneeling besides the body on the floor now, yelling something about calling an ambulance to Arthur. The baker takes Tommy’s face in his hands, steering those steely blue eyes away from the gruesome sight, thumb stroking soothingly at his cheek.

“Tommy?” he tries to sound calm, but panic is a fucking snake, innit, tightly fucking coiled around his throat, making his voice break, “Tommy are you alright? Are you hurt, sweetheart?”

The eyes stare back blankly. Fucking shit fuck. What disgusting fucking thing did that arsehole dare do to Tommy to make him react like this? Alfie steps away only for a second to look over Tommy. There’s no obvious wounds and his neck seems untouched, the blood on his shirt most likely Mosley’s. Doesn’t mean he isn’t injured, but Alfie can’t very well strip him and check right now, can he. He pulls Tommy into a careful and gentle embrace, tucking him into his shoulder with one hand and placing the other on his back.

“Breathe, Tommy,” he murmurs, hoping to reach the other man enough to at least calm him down a little. He makes exaggerated breaths in order to help, “just like me, see? Breathe in. Hold. Release,” he strokes his hair gently, “you know how it goes.”

Tommy relaxes slightly in his arms as he attempts to sync his shuddering breaths with Alfie’s, “that’s it, sweetheart, you’re doing great.” Polly steps into his vision behind Tommy, giving him a grim look before taking another cigarette and lighting it with shaky fingers covered in blood.

“The ambulance is on its way,” Arthur says from outside the room, but Mosley isn’t moving anymore. Alfie leads Tommy away, careful to avoid the expanding pool of blood.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The blood feels warm on his hands. Other than that, he feels nothing. He’s not even sure any of this is real. Surely he could never-

But he did. The hands that once suffocated him twitch weakly on the floor. And still he can’t breathe.

Why can’t he breathe?

Tommy is in a haze when Alfie appears in front of him. He can see him, but it feels distant. Like he’s not really there. Like it wasn’t really him. Like-

Like he didn’t just kill Mosley.

Alfie’s lips are moving, but Tommy can’t make out the words. When he’s pulled into a hug, breathing becomes easier.

_Breathe in. Hold. Release._

It’s all he can focus on now.

He’s being pulled away. At some point he’s enveloped in a blanket. Now he’s sitting down. Alfie’s there throughout, his steady hands a fragile anchor to reality. And then they pull away. Tommy wants to chase after them. He feels the threadbare connection to himself fray as they leave. He’s being spoken to again, but it’s hard to focus, hard to breathe and Alfie’s hands are back. They guide him to a car.

_We’ve got to take you to a doctor Tommy, okay?_

He nods weakly, lowering himself to lay his head on Alfie’s lap.

They arrive at the hospital after… ten minutes? Fifteen? Half an hour? Tommy can’t tell, but he’s in a white room now, slightly more aware of himself, actively clinging to Alfie’s hands now.

“I’m sorry, but we need you to leave the room for this,” he hears. The voices are clearer now and he turns his head to its source, a young blonde doctor. She’s standing somewhat close, arms folded in front of her.

“Nah,” is the answer from Tommy’s left. A deep grumble unmistakeably Alfie’s. They want him to leave. Tommy grips his arms tighter, pulls him closer. They can’t take him away, not when Tommy’s almost back. He’s almost himself again.

“Sir, I have to insist-,”

“Fuck off-,”

“Solomons!”

A third voice. By the door. Polly. She looks like shit. A mirror image to Tommy right now, he bets.

“Fucking behave yourself,” she spits.

She wants him to leave too and Tommy clings more. He wants to say something, but the words take away his breath. All he can do is press himself closer to Alfie, bury his face in the baker’s chest and hope they won’t let him leave. He just needs a little longer.

“A family member can stay for the physical examination,” the woman speaks again, “but only one.”

“Fine, I’ll stay,” Alfie’s voice rumbles.

“Sir, I said _family_.”

He can feel the anger rolling off of Alfie. A hand appears on Tommy’s shoulder.

“I’ll stay,” Polly offers. She’s using her stern, matter-of-fact voice which allows no argument. Tommy panics when Alfie removes himself from his side and the connection to reality breaks as he floats away from reality again.

He’s barely aware of what happens during the examination. Tommy tries to nod or shake his head when he’s asked something, but it’s impossible when he’s not close enough to hear.

Polly speaks. He can’t follow her words, but she seems angry. Is she angry with him? Did he do something wrong?

He did, didn’t he? Dread creeps its way over his spine and he clutches his stomach as it twists, making him gag. Somehow he’s above a sink as he empties the meagre contents of his stomach.

Is he shaking now? He can’t tell, everything’s so far.

He feels warmth on his left cheek.

Alfie is back. He wants to reach out to him but his movements are clumsy. Still, he manages, somehow, to end up in that secure embrace again, slowly pulling himself back, one shaky breath after another. Warmth seeps back into his bones.

It takes him some time to hear the voices again. Even more time to notice they’re in a different room now.

He feels Alfie talk through the vibrations of his chest before he hears him.

_Fucking dreadful, wasn’t it? I mean who serves fish like that? I told you, sweetheart, never eat anything pink._

The words come closer. He notices the bed in the room, relatively close to the sofa they’re sitting on now, Tommy still huddled in Alfie’s arms.

_I bet it was the radish._

The room is dark, save for the soft light of one of the neon bulbs above the bed and the warm glow emanating from a half open door to the hallway. They’re alone in here, but there’s familiar voices outside the room.

“Technically not pink, but close enough, eh?” Alfie surmises.

“It wasn’t the food,” Tommy’s tired and cracked voice surprises Alfie, who lets out a deep breath and slumps a little, seemingly relieved. Tommy feels the baker place a peck in his hair. Alfie pulls them apart enough so he can look him in the eyes.

“Welcome back, love,” Alfie’s voice is rougher, but there’s a soft smile on his lips, “how are you feeling?”

He feels like shit.

“Fine,” is the answer. Alfie tugs him back into the hug.

“They told me to get them when you’re responsive,” Alfie speaks into his hair, “but I’m not sure your wicked aunt’s done tearing them a new one.”

Ah, so that’s the voices outside.

Tommy furrows his brow, “what happened?”

“Well,” Alfie sighs, “you weren’t all there when we found you. I was fucking scared, wasn’t I. You wouldn’t let me leave when the first responders wanted to check you out, not that I fucking wanted to, yeah, but they spoke about privacy or something, I don’t fucking know. They sent us here. Said you need a full physical since you were, well, unresponsive, as they put it. They thought… doesn’t matter,” there’s a hand in Tommy’s hair again and he nuzzles closer to Alfie, “they made me leave you with Polly and the doctor. We tried to tell them you needed me, but… well they didn’t listen, did they. Then you got worse, which is why I’m here now and your aunt’s out there giving the most scalding fucking _I told you so_ in history. She’s a good one, your wicked aunt.”

Tommy hums, “and Mosley?” he asks tentatively.

“Don’t worry about that, love,” Alfie squeezes tighter, “you were just defending yourself, no one blames you.”

But he wasn’t. And they should.

The rest of the night is a blur. He’s being fussed about by his family and Alfie, until the doctor comes back to speak with him. They give him a change of clothes and make him stay the night. As he’s washing off the blood in the hospital showers, he makes the water burn his skin, just to prove to himself he can feel it.

They don’t make Alfie leave again, for which Tommy is grateful. He stays the night by Tommy’s side, holding his hand, sitting stiffly on a hospital chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Tommy.  
> I honestly don't have much experience with serious dissosiation like that and I hope I was able to somewhat accurately recreate it. It was a tough one to write for sure.  
> I've got a vague idea of what I want to do next and I'll try to get to writing as soon as I can :D


	9. Spiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy struggles to deal with his actions. He runs out of options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst, with a pinch of fluff to hold you through it.

Tommy isn’t stupid. He realises the perceived narrative of last night. It’s not hard to assume that Mosley, Tommy’s disgruntled ex with a history of violence against Tommy would attack him _again_. Fearing for his life, Tommy must have grabbed the closest thing and… fuck.

He tries to focus on his surroundings, his gaze travelling along the skyline visible through the hospital window. The light is a dim introduction to the upcoming sunrise. He squeezes gently at the hand still holding his, watching Alfie’s somewhat peaceful figure slumped on that uncomfortable-looking chair by his bed. That can’t be good for his back, but Tommy is glad he’s here.

He takes in the features of the sleeping man. It’s not the first time, nor is it the last Tommy’s done this. Whether it’s because he’s a natural early riser or the nightmares that still haunt his sleep, Tommy often lies in bed, watching.

There are wrinkles around Alfie’s eyes and nose from smiling and a specific little one that appears between his eyebrows when he’s having a nightmare. Tommy usually smooths it out by stroking through Alfie’s hair, but he’s too far away to do it now.

He diverts his gaze back through the window. Someone’s going to come and ask questions. They’re going to want to know what happened. Tommy’s got two choices. Tell the truth, be hated by everyone he cares about and go to jail or lie. It’s not really much of a choice, is it? The lie itself has been gift-wrapped and handed to Tommy on a silver plate. It’s as if the universe itself had ordained Tommy to get away with… with what he did.

Still, he can’t shake the building tightness in his chest. Fuck. He feels sick again.

Tommy barely makes it to the bathroom before he dry heaves into the toilet. There’s nothing but bile in his stomach anyways. He leans back against the bathtub, resting his cheek on the cold, hard surface. Alfie would hate him if he ever found out. His family would too and he can’t bear even the thought of that. No one can know.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“-and that was when Mr. Mosley lunged at you?” the officer asks, dutifully noting every lie coming from Tommy’s mouth. All he can do is nod again. He’s been feeling like shit for the entire interview, a nervous energy emanating from him from the moment he’d been told the police needed his statement. Thankfully, it seems as if they’re interpreting his odd behaviour as a result of trauma from the incident itself. The sympathy in their voice makes him feel worse.

After they’re done, Alfie helps Tommy get ready and they head home. The baker’s being very careful with him. Tommy knows it’s because he doesn’t really know what happened, not even the lie he’s told the police, and Alfie worries he might accidentally overstep some new boundaries. He knows telling him some version of the events of last night would help, but he doesn’t think he can handle lying to him about that right now. Alfie doesn’t push him on it.

They arrive at the building and pick up Cyril from their neighbour, grateful for her willingness to look after him for the night. Alfie’s back is stiff from the chair he’d slept in, evident by his grunts whenever he moves to bend, but he still kneels down to greet the dog. Tommy’s heart would warm if he could feel anything good right now.

The baker goes to unlock their door only to find it already open.

“Stay here,” he commands, voice low and angry, but Tommy knows the anger is not directed at him. Alfie’s tense and ready to fight as he slowly creaks the door open, taking a step in. He seems to notice something and his shoulders slump slightly. His face turns from angry to annoyed.

“Fucking hell, Chester, just let yourself in, whenever, huh mate?” he barks sardonically, gesturing for Tommy to follow inside. The thought of dealing with their landlord isn’t an appealing one, but it’s better than a break in. Marginally.

As they step into the apartment, Cyril trots happily alongside them and Alfie forgoes any pretence as he manhandles Tommy into their bedroom, ignoring the seething man at the table who has yet to speak a word.

“Alfie, what are you-,” Tommy wants to protest, but is quickly cut off.

“Nah, mate,” Alfie says softly once he’s sat Tommy on his bed, “you are not dealing with this shit right now. Lay down for a bit, Cyril here will keep you company. I’ll deal with Mr. Monopoly out there and then I’ll make us some food. Shout if you need anything.”

The baker stands and picks up an old black shirt of his, tossing it to Tommy and says _stay_ to Cyril (and Tommy). The dog is already nestled on the bed with no intention of moving. _He’s not allowed here_ is what Tommy would have said just one day ago, but now he can’t bring himself to make him leave now.

Alfie walks out and Tommy quietly begins undressing and puts on the shirt he’s been given before tucking himself under the covers. Cyril shifts a little closer and Tommy takes the hint, idly petting the dog. He doesn’t know if it’s the dog, or the familiar environment, or the smell of Alfie from his shirt, but he feels a little better now.

He doesn’t really know what they’re talking about outside, but it’s getting louder by the minute. Tommy huffs a quiet chuckle. They’ve broken about every rule Chester has had for the place. Besides the fact that they’re obviously a couple, as evident by Tommy being ushered to lay down in _Alfie’s_ room, and the dog that they’ve been told to get rid of about a thousand times now, Alfie has also done some not-strictly-legal alterations to the kitchen. He wonders whether it’s the actions themselves or the complete lack of hiding them that pisses Campbell off more.

They’re shouting now. Tommy hears some movement and then a door slams shut. Angry steps echo from the hallway, there’s a thud and what can only be a _Fuck!_ from Alfie. Moments pass. Tommy wonders if he should call out to see if he’s alright, but his thoughts are interrupted by a gentle knock on the door.

“You awake, sweetie?” he hears and it makes him laugh, actually fucking laugh. He didn’t know that was even possible anymore. After last night, it seemed to Tommy all he had left in his life was misery, pain and guilt, but this one absurd question makes him fucking laugh.

“Tommy?” Alfie enters, confused, rubbing his left forearm.

“Alfie,” Tommy huffs between laughs, “who on earth could have fallen asleep to you having a screaming match with Campbell?”

It’s really not that funny, but it doesn’t matter to Tommy. He’s ecstatic at the notion that the humour even occurred to him.

Alfie smiles a little at that, coming closer and sitting down beside Tommy.

“Right,” he reaches out slowly to put a hand on the lying man’s cheek, “sorry about that,” he sighs, “we have a problem, Tommy.”

Tommy leans into the touch, closing his eyes, “tell me.”

“Seems we’ve pushed the mad bastard a bit too far. He wants us out. We have one week.”

“It’s a shit apartment anyways,” Tommy mumbles into Alfie’s palm, “let’s find a new one.”

They move into the living room with Tommy’s laptop, settling on the couch. The conversation on whether this is something significant, being that there is no more pretence for their living together, is quickly settled with Tommy’s _I still want to live with you_ and Alfie’s teary-eyed response of _Of course you do_.

“I can’t pay the rent for this, Tommy, not in a million years,” Alfie groans at his side as they’re looking at pictures of a particularly nice, one-bedroom studio apartment that caught their eye. Good neighbourhood, big rooms, tall ceilings, natural light, well-kept wood floors and a bathtub big enough for three. Tommy doesn’t miss the way Alfie stares longingly at the pictures of the brand-new kitchen.

“Good thing we’re buying then, not renting,” Tommy retorts.

“If we’re buying this, I’m left with no savings,” Alfie noses Tommy’s hair, “I can’t afford this, love, sorry.”

“Then I’ll buy it,” Tommy simply says. There’s a disgruntled rumble vibrating through Alfie’s chest. Blue eyes turn to his, pleading, “if you won’t let me help you out with the bakery, at least let me give us a nice home.”

The furrow of Alfie’s brow softens somewhat, “home, huh?” he sighs, pressing their foreheads together, “alright, love. But I’m paying utilities and that’s non-fucking negotiable.”

“Okay,” Tommy huffs, pressing a kiss on Alfie’s cheek. It almost feels the same as before. Almost.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They’re moved into their home before Campbell can come harass them with showings for new possible tenants. As he’s unpacking his last box, Tommy hopes this change of venue will also change him.

After that first bright moment when they came home from the hospital, things have been… shit. Of course it wasn’t going to magically get better right away, but it’s just been getting worse and he doesn’t know why. Tommy feels like his wilting on the inside.

He can barely keep anything down and he sleeps even less than before. He knows there are nightmares, because he writhes in his sleep enough to wake Alfie, but he can’t remember what they’re about. He wishes he did. The rooms feel too small and the air in them is heavy so he spends a lot of time by open windows or in the park with Cyril. Polly hasn’t cleared him for work yet.

The past few days it’s been so bad he doesn’t feel like talking. His words are poison and he doesn’t want to hurt anyone. None of this goes past Alfie, whose concern and tenderness are like knives digging themselves into Tommy. He can’t take the kindness and so he asks to be left alone more and more often. He even asked for it now and that’s why he’s unpacking the last of his business papers in their shared office alone while Alfie is out with Cyril.

He’s hopeful as he stacks away the last few papers. The ever-present tightness in his chest has dissipated somewhat in the last hour. Yes. This will work. It has to.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It doesn’t work.

He’s sitting on the floor in the dark, leaning on a cabinet placed by the window. His renewed smoking habit resulted in his own little space on the floor with cushions and a blanket placed there by Alfie, the small window by his side cracked open, ashtray on his left.

It’s the middle of the night. Tommy takes another drag of his second cigarette this sitting.

Their new bed is bigger, which allows Tommy to scoot away from Alfie once he’s asleep. That way the nightmares don’t wake him. There was another one tonight. This one, he remembers. He wishes he didn’t.

His finger hovers over the number for a solid minute before his resolve crumbles. It takes two rings before a familiar voice answers.

“It’s the middle of the night,” the voice tries to sound stern, but there’s a slight slur to its words.

“You don’t sleep, Cookie,” Tommy answers.

The man on the other side chuckles, “neither do you, it seems,” he sniffles, “you sound like you could use some good _dreams_ right about now. You know I’ve got the best.”

“Always,” Tommy’s voice is even, his heart races, “still at your usual place?”

“Always,” Cookie offers.

Tommy’s breath is a little shaky. He shouldn’t do this, he’s been clean for so long. Tommy catches a glimpse of his reflection in the window, face illuminated by a nearby neon bar sign. Fuck, he looks bad. He needs sleep.

Tommy puts the phone back to his ear.

“I’m on my way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently dreams is used to describe opium sometimes. Seemed fitting.  
> I might not be able to write much in the coming days, we'll see, but I'll try my best :)


	10. Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy struggles with his drug habit, Alfie feels pushed away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still firmly in the angst section of this plotline, but we'll be moving on to sickly sweet fluff in no time, I hope.

When his head hits the pillow, it’s still dark outside.

Tommy feels light as a feather and is taken by a deep, dreamless sleep.

There’s a light breeze from an open window and it dances across Tommy’s clammy skin, the slight shivers waking him. He’s alone in bed, but there’s a glass of water on his nightstand and he can hear Alfie move in the kitchen.

He feels… okay? He’s not sure. The opium he’d taken last night leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, his muscles cramp and he’s nauseous from withdrawal, but it’s not as bad as it used to be back then. At least he got some decent sleep. Tommy groans as he tries to sit up and lean on the bedframe.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” he hears as the door creaks open, Alfie coming through with a tray of food, “how are we feeling today?”

Tommy’s stomach makes a pitiful sound at the sight of food and he runs to the bathroom quickly, reaching the toilet well before the nausea finally makes him spit out bile again. He hears Alfie sigh from the other room, placing down the tray and walking over. Alfie wets a towel with cool water and then his hands are gently stroking Tommy’s back.

“Sorry, love,” he speaks gently, “I assumed seeing you still asleep in the morning meant I could entice you with some food. Here, take this. I’ll get you some ice.”

Tommy nods weakly and wipes his face with the offered towel. It feels pleasantly cool against his feverish skin. He’s been vomiting on and off since the night he… since it happened, which is actually convenient now that it helps mask opium withdrawal. Alfie suspects nothing. God, he feels like a piece of shit right now.

Everything’s made even worse when Alfie comes back with the ice chips, giving Tommy one to suck on, because a glass of water usually only makes him throw up again and this way he stays at least somewhat hydrated. He’s so fucking caring and loving, even after Tommy has been nothing but distant and cold. Alfie has to leave, Tommy can’t take this, he doesn’t deserve it.

“I need some space,” he croaks, not daring to look the other man in the eye, instead focusing on the dissolving ice in his palm.

“I can’t leave you like this, Tommy,” the voice is concerned and, if Tommy were to look into it, a little hurt.

“I’m alright, Alfie,” Tommy retorts, still looking away. When he feels Alfie reach out for him again, he shies away from the touch. It’s too much right now.

Alfie takes back his hand, clears his throat and stands up.

“We’re low on milk,” his voice sounds broken, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

When the bathroom door closes, Tommy feels the tears trickle down his cheek, desperate for another hit. As soon as Alfie’s out of the front doors, Tommy is rummaging through his coat and emptying the small brown bottle’s contents in his mouth.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m going back to work tomorrow,” Tommy mentions, petting a lazily snoring Cyril at his side of the couch. The dog has planted himself into the gap between Alfie and Tommy. They’re reading, Alfie’s glasses perched low on his nose. The baker looks up from his book.

“You sure you’re up for it?” he simply asks.

Tommy nods, “yeah. I’ve been feeling better lately. More sleep, less vomit. Feels like the time.”

Alfie mirrors his movement, but something is off about his expression. He can’t really argue with Tommy’s apparent improvement, as fake as it may be. Tommy’s been riding one high after the other, careful to keep any unpleasant withdrawal symptoms away from his boyfriend’s watchful eye.

He’d feel bad about it if he weren’t high right now. Well, high is a strong word. He never takes a lot, just enough to take the edge off. But his newly re-established old habit leads Tommy to a new problem.

He needs more disposable income. The opium is burning a hole in his pocket and he needs to be careful with how he spends his money so he doesn’t alert Polly. She’s been lenient because of the move, but now he’s back to _not enough_ and he’s not entirely sure where he’s going to get the money. Surely, he can scrounge up some money from something in the office.

“Do you regret moving in with me?”

Tommy is roused from his thoughts by those words and he struggles to understand, “what? No, of course not. Why?”

Alfie looks sad. He shrugs, “just… I don’t know… I miss you.”

It’s hard to keep his gaze now, “I just need some time, Alfie.”

“And space,” Alfie adds dejectedly.

“And space,” Tommy confirms. Fuck. This is too hard, he needs his little brown bottle. Just a little. Just so he can breathe past this giant fucking lump in his throat.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There’s no money in the books that could disappear without someone noticing. Fuck. Tommy takes his head in his arms and sighs. There’s antique statuettes and paintings in here. He could… No, someone would notice. Someone always notices.

But if there were a fire… No. _No._ He shakes his head. There’s got to be another way.

His spending money is running dry and his stash is dwindling. Tommy doesn’t want to think about what would happen if he had to stop now. He’s struck with an idea when he spots the office’s electric bill on Lizzie’s desk on his way out.

It wouldn’t have to be a lot. Alfie doesn’t even pay rent. Really, one could say he’s living on Tommy’s dime, so taking a little for himself wouldn’t be too bad… right? He could add a couple dozen pounds to the electric bill, Alfie would believe it. He pretty much thinks they live in a castle, he’s got no feel for high end apartment upkeep prices and he lets Tommy handle the bills, giving him the money in cash he needs to pay them.

Tommy asks Alfie for one hundred and thirty pounds extra in total to the utility bills.

Alfie pays, no questions asked.

Tommy has to take two bottles that night.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It all comes crashing down around him sooner than he’d ever imagined.

Tommy’s relationship with Alfie has been strained, to say the least. Tommy feels undeserving of what Alfie wants to give, because Tommy… Tommy killed a man. And Alfie thinks it was self-defence. Alfie wants to love Tommy and make him himself again but he can never be who he was. That man lies dead alongside Mosley’s corpse.

If only he could tell him. Maybe he should. He deserves the hate. But telling someone that sort of thing is a burden, that much Tommy knows and he can’t do that to Alfie. He tries to push past how disgusted he feels with himself and give Alfie what he wants, at least physically.

The first time Alfie’s tender touches caress him, he bolts for the bathroom again. The second time Alfie stops when he sees the tears. The baker begs Tommy to talk to him, talk to anyone, because he’s stopped seeing his therapist as well, but Tommy just takes his coat and goes on a walk. He visits Cookie more often.

The third time, Tommy is determined. He’s in the bathroom, taking deep breaths. The crook behind the counter where he keeps his stash is now filled with empty bottles, because he’s used them all. He doesn’t remember how many exactly he’s drunk, but it has to be enough. He can’t flake out tonight.

When he feels his head loll to the side and his heartbeat steady, he knows it’s time. A low smile plays on his lips. It’s a nice high. Tommy strips to his underwear and goes into their bedroom.

Alfie is sitting on the bed, the low golden glow of the lamp illuminating him like a painting as he reads one of his favourite Russian novels. The book is closed when he spots Tommy by the door. He places it on the nightstand alongside his glasses as Tommy walks over, careful to keep his steps steady, straddling the half-sitting man.

“Tommy you don’t have to do this,” Alfie’s hands rest idly on Tommy’s hips and it feels warm and good. Tommy’s smile widens, “I want to.”

They kiss languidly for a while, but it’s not right. Things seem to slow down for Tommy and it’s hard for him to stay awake. He tries to push through his sudden exhaustion.

Tommy helps Alfie out of his shirt and he smiles down at him when the other man freezes.

“Tommy, your eyes,” Alfie takes Tommy’s face between his hands and sits up from below him in one swift movement, making Tommy struggle for balance. His vision is blurring as he’s turned towards the light.

“Are you fucking high?!” Alfie roars, grip tightening. Not that Tommy can feel it. Tommy can’t feel anything really, except for the blissful feeling of lightness and a brightness in his heart he hasn’t felt in a long time. It makes him smile slightly, despite the situation he’s in. He really can’t care at the moment. Tommy nods.

Alfie pushes him off of himself and he falls on the mattress, into the mattress and through it. Feels like he’s floating.

“Fucking hell what did you-, of fucking course, opium,” Alfie’s voice is far away again, which is odd, because he’s right there in his face now. Is he shaking Tommy?

“How much did you fucking take, Tom?”

A lot. Bleary eyes struggle to focus on the baker’s face.

“Tommy? Stay the fuck awake, Tommy!”

Tommy’s eyes roll back into his head as he loses consciousness.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“This is your fucking fault,” Arthur throws at Alfie as he stomps into the waiting room of the hospital. The previously subdued baker stands up to meet him head on. This won’t end well.

Polly swiftly follows the bear of a man and puts herself between them before the bickering can start. She doesn’t need to say anything to Arthur, he knows her eyes well enough to step away, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. Letting out a deep sigh, she turns to Alfie.

The man’s seen better days, that’s for sure. Behind the obvious anger there’s exhaustion and a fearfulness he’s doing his best to hide. She puts a placating hand on his arm, diverting his stare away from Arthur.

“None of us knew,” she soothes.

“None of _us_ are living with him,” Arthur spits from behind.

“Arthur, shut up,” Polly’s losing her patience, head turned back over her shoulder to fix her nephew with a murderous glare. Keeping these two from killing each other is going to be an issue if Arthur doesn’t pull his shit together.

“He’s right.”

Polly’s head snaps back at those words, words which did surely not come from Alfie’s mouth right now.

“I should have fucking noticed something,” he’s looking down, fidgeting with his hands. They all look like little boys to her when they’re like this and they all need the same thing. She sighs and pulls Alfie into a hug.

“You didn’t notice anything because Thomas is smart,” she huffs, “to a fucking fault. When he was young, none of us noticed anything either. Not until it was very bad.”

The big man allows himself to be held by her, like the little boy that he is right now and asks, “worse than this?”

“Yes,” Polly lies as they let go of each other, her heart hammering. She leads him to sit back down. Worry won’t do him any good. Arthur storms out, muttering something along the lines of _Where’s John_ and _I need some air_.

This is going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about drugs, so I hope this is at least somewhat okay :P  
> Also, yes, I am speedrunning angst because I'm a fluff kind of person and sad things make me sad ):


	11. Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the overdose. Polly takes charge, Alfie hesitates and Tommy can't hold back anymore.

The smoke seems to linger where she huffs it in the air. Slowly, it dissipates, revealing grey clouds on the horizon. It’s going to rain soon. Polly huffs a dry laugh to herself. She hasn’t brought an umbrella. Last thing on her mind when she left home, wasn’t it.

The cigarette is stubbed out and thrown into the trash. She marches back into the building, her low heels clicking rhythmically. Tommy is out of the woods. All he needs to do is wake up now.

When they got the news, she’d sent Arthur, Finn and John home and called Ada. Solomons had been reluctant to go into Tommy’s room, so she sent him home aswell to get some sleep. Of course he felt bad and returned with some things for Tommy and she had to threaten him to make him leave again. He’s going to be back in an hour or so, Polly reckons.

Upon entering the bleary hospital room she finds Tommy awake with a nurse fussing over him. He doesn’t seem to be interested in her inquiries. When the woman leaves, Polly goes to lean against the windowsill, right where Tommy’s eyes are fixed. She crosses her arms and gives him a blank stare.

“I see you’re still with the living… barely,” she says impassively, though the bags under her eyes betray her true feelings. She was doing her best to be mad at him, but in all honesty, she can’t really blame him. They should have kept an eye out for him, his family. It was a terrible idea to just dump that burden on his boyfriend who’s had no experience dealing with the boy’s trauma. Or addiction.

Tommy’s eyes meet hers. They’re as cold as ever. At least he’s somewhat himself, she thinks.

“Where’s Alfie?”

That’s the first thing he asks. She fights the urge to roll her eyes.

“I sent him home to get some proper rest,” she wishes she could smoke in here, if only to have something to do with her hands.

Tommy nods.

“He hates me,” he says, voice barely a whisper.

Polly snorts, “if that man hates you, he’s got a funny way of showing it, helping you claw your way back from an overdose like that. Sitting in the waiting room like a kicked puppy until the doctor comes and tells us you’re okay. He’s a good man.”

“I don’t deserve him,” Tommy’s gaze is away again, somewhere far outside. Seems like he’s in pain. Good, the pain will remind him that actions have consequences.

“So we’re at the part where the great Tommy Shelby sabotages any and all relationships he has because he doesn’t deserve anything good in his life, is that it?” Polly chides, “you want to tell me to just let you die on a street corner again, hm? How the world would be a better place without you?”

“Maybe it would,” he mutters, worrying the white cotton fabric of his blanket under his fingers.

At that she does roll her eyes and walks over to the corner of the room, picking up a bag from the ground. She plops it in his lap unceremoniously.

“Solomons was gone for about one hour before he came back with this,” she waves at the bag, “for when you wake up.”

Tommy just stares at the bag blankly. Polly nods towards the adjacent bathroom, “take it and make yourself decent. You smell like death.”

He does as he’s told and disappears into the bathroom. It’s a gamble, leaving him alone in a room with endless possibilities for self-harm, but she trusts Tommy not to do anything stupid right now. Maybe she shouldn’t.

She hears the water from the shower head and thinks. Glass shards are dangerous, but you can’t disguise the noise of breaking a mirror. Drowning is a possibility, hitting your head hard against the edge of a surface the right way is too. Or maybe he’ll just claw his way through his skin. He’s certainly tried before. Fuck, she’s too old for this.

A while later, with her patience thoroughly tested, she sees Tommy emerge from the bathroom. He’s wearing baggy clothing that is clearly not his own, backpack hanging loosely from where he’s holding it in one hand. It doesn’t seem empty.

He sets the bag down carefully on the nightstand and goes under the covers, back turned towards Polly, curling himself into a foetal position. Tommy was the only of the boys who’d do that. Get in trouble and curl up, hating himself more than anyone else could for his own transgressions. How do you punish a child that’s so brutal with himself?

She sighs, “I’ve made some calls. We found you a space in a good treatment centre where they’ll help you get clean. You’re going there,” she steps around the bed and into his vision, looking at the bag, “for him if not for yourself.”

Tommy nods reluctantly.

She nods along with him, “good. You’re going today. Finn, John and Arthur will be here in a couple of hours to say goodbye. I reckon they’ll let us see you within a month. If you’re good.”

Tommy closes his eyes, “and Alfie?”

“On his way, I assume,” she takes a deep breath, stepping closer to the bed, running her hands through Tommy’s hair. She thinks of when the last time she’s done that had been. It was after a party by a bonfire a couple years ago, when he’d gotten drunk with his siblings. They turn into such children when they drink. They huddled up with her in her mother’s caravan, listening to her stories the same way they had when she’d take them for rides across the country in the summer. Tommy seems like shadow of what he used to be back then.

“I need a drink, but a smoke will have to do. You go back to sleep. If you need to vomit, there’s a bucket under your bed for emergencies,” with that, she goes back outside.

It’s no surprise that she sees Solomons, in no better shape than last night, walk up to her only moments later.

“He’s awake,” she offers, “well, was awake.”

The big man in front of her still seems so small, his shoulders hunched and gaze set on the floor.

“When do we take him home?” he asks reluctantly.

“We don’t,” Polly blows the smoke of her cigarette against the strength of the newly present wind, “not for a while at least. We’re sending him to rehab. Today.”

Solomons nods. He looks towards the entrance, but doesn’t move, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket.

“Something on your mind?” she raises her eyebrows.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” he simply states, taking a deep breath, before continuing, “I’ve been trying so fucking hard to reach him and I just can’t.”

She takes another drag, “that’s our Thomas. Thinks he doesn’t need or deserve anyone’s help.”

“This will help him though, right?” he asks, “the rehab? Make him better?”

“It will help with the opium,” she shrugs, “not sure about the underlying problem.”

“You mean Mosley.”

“I mean Mosley,” she agrees, “unless there’s some other recent trauma I’m not aware of. I’m pretty sure, though, killing his ex is a good enough reason,” she pins him with a firm stare, “go in Solomons, he needs you.”

The man huffs, “I don’t know if I can deal with this.”

“It doesn’t matter if you can,” she retorts, “if you love him, you will.”

It’s all the encouragement the baker needs and she watches him enter the building, feeling the first drop of rain on her cheek.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s walking through the white corridors, stiff fucking back and headache in tow.

After they’d found out Tommy was going to be alright, he’d felt like he could breathe for the first time in hours. But when it was time to see him, he couldn’t move. It was just too hard. That’s when the wicked Shelby witch banished him home and he immediately felt bad about how relived he’d felt.

Bad enough to pack Tommy a bag with some of his favoured clothes he’d steal from him, some of his favourite sweets he was unlikely to eat (a man can fucking dream, though), the book he’d been reading the past couple days and a note. He’d written it three times and thrown it all away before deciding to just write _I love you_ and add it on top of the pile in the backpack.

Because he does. Alfie loves Tommy. And Tommy said he loves Alfie too.

He tries to keep that in mind when he thinks about the way Tommy flinched when he was touched, the way he’d barely spoken to him at all in the past fucking week, his tiny fucking pupils and slow movements when he tried to fuck him while high, his slow breaths and limp body in the ambulance, the fucking electric bill he’d walked past on his way to the hospital, as he’s walking towards his room.

When he enters, he sees a tuft of black hair peaking up from below the covers. Alfie knocks to announce his presence, careful in his movements around Tommy the same way he’d been the past few weeks, as if the other man were to startle and run away. He just fucking might.

The tuft moves and groggy blue eyes look at him.

“You came,” Tommy says gruffly as he shuffles to sit up in his bed. He’s wearing Alfie’s clothes, the ones he’d packed for him. The baker’s heart swells a little.

“Of fucking course I came,” Alfie huffs indignantly, hoping to cover his hesitancy as he approaches the bed slowly, taking off his jacket and hanging it off a chair. He sits down on the bed by Tommy’s thighs, but he keeps a respectful distance. If Tommy were to shy away from his touch now, he’d fucking fall of the bed and that wouldn’t be very good, would it.

Neither of them know what to say and for a while they just sit in awkward silence.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy croaks.

_It doesn’t matter if you can._

Alfie looks at him then, his honest blue eyes welling up with tears.

 _If you love him, you will_.

Alfie sighs. Of all the fucking weak spots in the fucking world to have, Tommy Shelby has got to be the most damaging for his fucking health.

“It’s all good, hm?” he soothes, “they’ll make you better, right, and then you’ll come back and we’ll… try to make things okay for you,” he reaches out his hand and Tommy takes it, squeezing gently. It’s a gesture of peace, but Alfie longs for more. Fucking hell, not 24 hours ago Tommy was on the brink of death, a fucking hug isn’t too much to ask for, is it?

He shifts a little closer and when Tommy doesn’t move away, he puts his hand around the nape of Tommy’s neck and pulls him against his chest. And fucking hell it fells good when Tommy melts into his touch instead of shying away, settling in the crook of Alfie’s neck with his skinny arms tentatively circling the baker’s waist. Alfie’s hand is stroking up through Tommy’s hair now, while the other one is gently caressing his back.

Alfie could fucking cry. Tommy does.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he says softly, “I’m here for you, okay? You can talk to me.”

“You’ll hate me,” Tommy says between silent sobs.

“I could never hate you, love,” Alfie places a gentle peck on Tommy’s temple as the other pulls back. The wet lashes and pale freckles would make him look young if it weren’t for the dark circles under his eyes and the weariness in his gaze.

There’s a steely detachment present when he looks at him, one that was there all the other times Alfie’s tried to make Tommy talk to him, but something breaks and Tommy buries his face back in his neck.

“It wasn’t self-defence, Alfie,” he whispers against the other man’s chest, “he would have ruined us. I panicked.”

Tommy takes another breath, “he never even touched me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got two more chapters planned for this and I'll do my best to finish them quickly.
> 
> I was thinking of starting a new AU. I already have some great ideas thanks in large part due to my supportive roommate ;D  
> It's going to be cheesy and fluffy, of course


	12. Heal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie reconciles with Tommy, Cyril is a good dog, fluff, more fluff, all the fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So not two chapters, but just one. It's a bit longer, so I hope that makes up for it :P

Cyril plops his heavy head on the sofa next to Alfie’s right thigh.

“What?” the baker barks, still focused on his book. He’s squinting more lately and he’s holding the book too fucking close for comfort. He needs new lenses, again.

The dog licks its nose.

“ _What?_ ” Alfie says, more annoyed, putting his book out of reach, because he will not have Cyril’s slobber on it, thank you very much, staring the dog right in his black, beady eyes. The eye contact makes Cyril wag his tail lazily. Alfie crosses his arms.

“I know what today is, right? No need to fucking remind me,” he speaks to the dog.

Today is visiting day, innit? The first one, actually, when he’s allowed to see Tommy after what feels like a fucking eternity, but Polly Shelby insists has only been five weeks.

For five fucking weeks Alfie been like a spring, hasn’t he, jumping all around the fucking place, waiting for this day to come, and now that it’s here he’s… reluctant. Afraid that Tommy might not be better. Terrified that he might be worse.

And then there’s that other thing, yeah. The whole _murder_ thing and all.

The dog judges silently.

“So what if I have some fucking reservations, huh? It’s completely fucking normal, innit?” he stands, going to the fridge to get himself some water, Cyril following along, “he fucking stole from me, got fucking tweaked out on opium behind my back and fucking _murdered_ someone to preserve his family’s mountain full of gold, like an evil fucking dwarf king or something,” he walks back to the sofa, sitting down, this time scratching Cyril’s head as the dog stares on, “any person in their right fucking mind would say _hmm, I can maybe excuse theft and drug use, but murder, right, that might be a bit much_.”

Cyril hops on the cushion next to Alfie, resting his head on the man’s lap.

Alfie sighs, “I’m a fucking dumbass, Cyril.”

The dog huffs a quiet bark at that, sounds like he’s agreeing, that cheeky bastard. Alfie gets up and is ready half an hour before Polly comes to pick him up.

The _wellness_ facility, fancy fucking name for drug clinic, ain’t it, is less of a hospital, more of a retirement home in it’s aesthetic. Alfie wonders where more people die.

Arthur’s ugly mug is standing in the parking lot with John and Ada when Polly pulls up with Alfie and Cyril in the back seat.

“Why hello Cyril,” Ada kneels along with John to pet the dog as Arthur glares at Alfie.

“You brought the fucking dog?” Arthur barks.

“Yeah,” Alfie answers unfazed, “he’s family.”

He hears the amused huff from the other side of the car as Polly exits it. She was surprisingly nonchalant about Cyril’s presence during the ride.

They walk to the front doors of the facility when they are stopped by a short portly man dressed in a uniform with the words SECURITY on a patch sewn to his clothes.

“Sir,” he puts a hand on Alfie’s bicep, “we do not allow pets inside.”

Alfie glares at the hand touching him. There’s no fucking need for that, none at fucking all, right. So he stares at it until the man tucks back his arm and, metaphorically tucks in his tiny fucking tail when the stare then shifts to his face.

“He’s a therapy dog, ain’t he?” Alfie says, waving towards Cyril, who does his best puppy-eyed look as he pants at the doorstep. Arthur groans in the background and it’s either Ada or John who gets elbowed by Polly for their snickering.

“He’s well trained, quiet and docile,” she adds, eyes probably as cold and unyielding as Alfie’s.

“The dog is, too,” Alfie adds with a grin. More snickering from behind. Eventually, whether it be the threatening eyes, the disarming words or Cyril’s admittedly adorable black beady eyes, they’re all allowed in and ushered into a quiet yellow room with big windows and too many fucking plants.

Alfie sits down on the couch with Cyril laying down by his foot. Polly plants herself by the cracked window, ready to huff away at her death sticks. John and Ada sit down on the sofa across Alfie and John begins devouring the cookies set out on a plate on the small wooden coffee table in front of them while Arthur paces around the room.

Not long after they’re seated, the door opens. A lady dressed in white scrubs walks in alongside Tommy. Alfie sits up straighter for some fucking reason.

Tommy is a mess. Not in the way he was five weeks ago though, no. His hair has grown out somewhat, and with the lack of hair products, it’s mussed in a way Alfie’s only seen it after particularly good sex. He’s got some more colour to his skin and the bags under his eyes have shrunk a bit. They’ve probably made him spend time outside a lot, Alfie thinks as he notices the myriad of freckles now vivid against those pretty cheeks.

He’s clad in Alfie’s clothing, because Tommy Shelby does not own comfortable clothes, so when Alfie packed for him that day, he packed half his own closet. Laundry day twice a week has never been worth it more than now, seeing Tommy dwarfed by Alfie’s favourite yellow knit sweater and his black adidas sweats. He’s also wearing the wool socks Polly added to the pile.

Tommy approaches the room steel faced. He’d seem completely at ease to anyone who doesn’t know him, but there’s tell-tale signs in the way he subtly clutches to his sleeves and a nervous flicker in his eyes.

“Hello,” he says.

“You look like you’re five years old,” John comments and Ada shoots him a glare. Polly smirks, adding: “At least you don’t look like death anymore.”

“Tommy,” Arthur stills next to his brother, arm stretched out and perched on his shoulder. His eyes are welling up, “you look good, brother.”

The family fusses and jokes and keeps the mood light as they interrogate Tommy about his treatment here. Questions about the food and the abhorrent plant life and how much sleep he’s getting get mixed with stories about how the company is doing, about the horses and other topics. At some point they sit Tommy down next to Alfie with Cyril at his feet, who is of course grateful to accept any and all pets from Tommy.

Alfie stays silent throughout, but he smiles softly whenever Tommy’s eyes meet his. At some point Tommy leans against him and Alfie puts his hand on the sofa to allow him to rest his head on his shoulder. He allows himself to nose through the black hair once and he feels happiness bubble up inside him.

After an hour, Polly demands the Shelby’s join her on a smoke break, winking at Alfie as he’s left alone in the room with Tommy and Cyril.

Tommy shuffles closer, “you came.”

“Hm,” Alfie presses a kiss into his messy black hair, “seems I did.”

“Alfie,” Tommy pushes himself away only enough to look the other man in the eye, “I missed you.”

The baker wants to say something, but he’s sure if he opens his mouth he’s going to start crying. The choice of facing the Shelby clan with red puffy eyes is taken away from him when Tommy kisses him slowly, carefully.

When they part, Tommy buries himself in Alfie’s chest, embracing him at an awkward angle. It doesn’t matter though, Tommy is here and he’ll be fucking alright, yeah, and if one fucking tear slides down Alfie’s cheek then nobody has to fucking know, right?

“I missed you too,” he doesn’t care if his voice breaks.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tommy’s getting dressed in his own clothes for the first time in months.

After the overdose had scared some sense back into him, he’s been doing his best to claw his way back to himself. The first step, after he woke up in the hospital, had been telling Alfie the truth. He remembers that moment vividly. Alfie looked shell-shocked, but he didn’t leave.

And that means everything to Tommy.

Fucking hell, the things he’s put Alfie through, and yet that man has stayed with him throughout it all. Tommy is still trying to convince himself he deserves the love he’s been given.

Guilt ebbs and flows these days, but it’s better than before. Even though he’s away from home, he feels less alone. The knowledge that there is someone out there who knows him, truly and fully, and still thinks him good enough, is a comfort he turns to in those moments when he feels the sting of his past actions.

Tommy finishes up the buttons on his waistcoat and checks his cufflinks before he confidently walks back into his room.

“What do you think, eh?” he extends his arms and looks towards Polly.

She has a smirk on her face, “you need a haircut. Let’s go.”

He does need a haircut, but that’ll have to wait. Alfie’s bakery is opening in two days. Tommy wasn’t supposed to go home for another couple of days, but he was able to convince the therapist to grant him an early release after he promised her to return for weekly counselling sessions. There’s no way he would miss that opening.

Polly helps him pack and they’re on their way, Tommy silently smoking through the cracked window on the passenger seat.

“He still at the bakery?” Tommy asks.

“Should be there all day,” she answers, “maybe even all night. Probably all day tomorrow too. He’s having Arthur look after the dog.”

Tommy smirks, “I wonder how that’s going.”

Polly chuckles, “I’ve been told the dog is more agreeable than Solomons. Apparently, he talks less.”

Tommy’s smile widens, “he sure does.”

“Tommy, you’ve told Solomons you’re coming home early, right?”

“No,” he says simply, “he’d have dropped everything to come pick me up. It’s simpler this way.”

That, and he wanted to surprise him. Polly smiles at that and shakes her head. She drops him off at their apartment and Tommy waves her goodbye before going in.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Fucking piece of shit!”

It’s the first thing Tommy hears when he stalks into the bakery, trying to keep quiet. He hasn’t been allowed off of the premises of the wellness facility, so he wasn’t there to follow Alfie’s dream slowly become reality as he bought the old abandoned spaces that have been slowly turned into a small and honestly very beautiful bakery.

Alfie’d brought him pictures, but it’s different now that he’s here. There’s lots of wood, stone and plant life with warm lighting all around the place. It’s hard to describe, but it honestly looks and feels very _Alfie_ and Tommy could sense how much of himself the baker had put into the place. Being here now with the sun setting in the background, it would be quite a peaceful place, were it not for the metal clinking and the strings of curses coming from somewhere in the kitchen.

Tommy follows the sounds and finds Alfie on his back, his upper body disappearing in the cabinet below a sink. There’re screws and a toolbox by his soaked sweatpants and a large puddle of water around. A dull thud from inside the cabinet elicits another _Fucking cunt fuck_ from the baker as Tommy chuckles.

“There’s professionals for that, you know,” Tommy can’t help but offer.

Alfie stills momentarily before pushing himself from inside the cabinet, wide eyes staring right at Tommy. He breaks out in a grin and heaves himself up with a grunt, moving to greet his boyfriend in a big wet hug.

“Fucking hell Tom,” the baker hugs him tighter, “you break out of there for me?”

When Tommy chuckles, the baker pulls him away, fixing him with a stare, “you didn’t do that, right?”

“No Alfie,” Tommy smiles, “they let me out early so I could tell you to call a plumber.”

Alfie nods thoughtfully. He turns his head back to the cabinet and sighs, “yeah, you’re right. Fucking thing just blew up on me. Let’s go home.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alfie spends the next few days either at the bakery or at home talking about the bakery and Tommy is actually glad that his focus isn’t entirely on him. He tries to help where he can and even fills in for Ollie at the register when he gets sick that one day. It’s about two weeks before Alfie has time to panic about how little he’s been fussing over Tommy, but the other man just shuts him up with a kiss.

It’s a Saturday and it’s Alfie’s day off. Tommy’s not going to work for another week. He’s in the kitchen now, at four in the morning, but tonight it wasn’t the nightmares that woke him up. No, he’s set an alarm.

Alfie’s probably forgotten this, but it’s been exactly two years since Tommy first walked into that shitty apartment and met the love of his life. He wants this day to be special. That’s why he’s up at four, furrowing his brow at a recipe for blueberry pie. This has turned out to be more difficult than expected. He’s halfway through whatever _crimping_ and _fluting_ edges is, when he hears shuffling in the bedroom.

“Tommy?” the baker’s gruff voice calls out.

Tommy runs over to the bedroom and peers his head through the door. The baker is standing by the foot of the bed, not yet really awake, clad in only his underwear. He looks like a bear that’s just woken up from its winter hibernation with a scrunched-up face and hair sticking out at odd ends. Tommy could mount him right then and there.

“Go back to sleep, Alfie,” Tommy tries to sound commanding, but the smile on his face makes it sound fond.

Alfie reaches out his arms like a fucking teddy bear and it’s all the encouragement Tommy needs to slip into the room and hug him.

“Not going to bed without you, mate,” Alfie mumbles, “Tommy?”

Tommy hums into the baker’s chest.

Alfie pulls back and grabs Tommy’s right wrist, “sweetheart, what’s this?”

Oh, some of the berry mixture must have gotten on his finger. Alfie eyes it as if it were poison. _Or drugs._ Tommy pushes the finger against the baker’s lips. Alfie hesitantly opens his mouth and allows Tommy to drag the sticky substance across his tongue. When he recognises the taste, he closes his lips around the finger and fucking _sucks_. Fuck, Tommy cannot get side-tracked already, there will be enough time for this later. He wills the flush in his cheeks away and manages to say, “go back to bed.”

This time, Alfie obeys, still sceptical of the situation, but seemingly placated enough to let Tommy go back to his business.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alfie wakes up in the middle of the fucking night, _again_. He’s been doing that lately, for whatever fucking reason, and the only thing that will help him go back to blissful dreamless slumber is the sight of his lovely Tommy Shelby at his side, right where he fucking belongs, in bed, sleeping.

So when he wakes up and the world outside is still as dark as ever and there is, in fact, no Tommy Shelby by his side, where he fucking belongs at this time, in the fucking bed, fucking sleeping, well then he’s a little fucking miffed, isn’t he.

He grumbles as he goes to stand, calling out for Tommy. He’d fucking promised to wake Alfie when it got bad, right, when he couldn’t sleep. That was the fucking deal, right? And he’s done that, once or twice, and while Alfie has no fucking clue what he’s doing, he’d like to think that he’s helping, somehow. Or maybe he’s not. Maybe that’s why Tommy hasn’t woken him up.

He sees light from below the door to the kitchen, but before he can really move any fucking closer, the door opens and his lovely Tommy Shelby peeks his head in. What a fucking beauty.

No, he won’t go back to fucking bed.

As they hug, he feels something sticky on his back where Tommy’s holding him. What the fuck? When he tastes the sugar, it makes even less fucking sense. He’d press and he’d pry, but Tommy’s face is open and excited about something and when he’s sure there’s not a single fucking hint of fear or panic in those icy blue eyes, he relents and drags himself back to the fucking bed. Maybe Tommy’s baking. He chuckles to himself, yeah, that’ll be the day.

Seems like it is the fucking day, eh?

When he wakes up, there’s a slice of blueberry pie on his nightstand. It looks wonky and slightly burnt, but the smell is intoxicatingly sweet and inviting. He feels Tommy’s arms wrap around him from behind when he sits up.

“Morning,” Tommy purrs into the nape of his neck, “happy anniversary.”

Alfie freezes. Anniversary? Today? Fuck, he forgot. Wait.

Did he? No, he fucking didn’t. There’s no fucking anniversary today.

Fucking is there?

In his confusion, he doesn’t notice Tommy climbing around him to settle on his lap. He’s wearing Alfie’s shirt again, _and nothing else_ , his dick helpfully provides, sleepy eyes and mussed hair nuzzling against him. He’s rarely this pliant and Alfie wants to touch, to kiss and do ungodly things to this heavenly being, but his brain still needs some clarification.

“Sweetheart,” he coos softly, “forgive me if I’ve had a brain aneurysm, but what fucking anniversary?”

Tommy smiles and looks at him with earnest eyes, “two years ago, today, I ran away from Mosley.”

Oh fuck, that’s right.

“And I made you pie,” Alfie feels like he’s going to tear up, so he swiftly adds, “which you didn’t fucking eat, mate.”

Tommy laughs and it makes Alfie’s heart fucking ache. Two years later and this beautiful angel is fully his, loose and happy and right now purposefully grinding down on him, cheeky fucker. Alfie hauls Tommy on his back, caging him in with his body and begins fucking ravishing him with kisses while the other man laughs.

“Alfie,” Tommy suddenly stops him and pulls him up so they’re centimetres away, “I know I’m not very good at showing you how much you mean to me,” he runs a hand down Alfie’s cheek, “but you should know that I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

Alfie smiles softly. Fucking hell he’s going to fucking cry again.

“I love you too,” he croaks and kisses him deeply.

The blueberry pie lies forgotten on the nightstand again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayy, that's it for now.  
> I'm gonna see if I have time to start the new AU :D


End file.
